


Collateral Damage (An Unexpected Heist)

by bodysnatch3r



Series: The Heistverse [4]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2017-11-23 11:01:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 33
Words: 97,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/621385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bodysnatch3r/pseuds/bodysnatch3r
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When his childhood home is burned down by the vicious crime lord Smaug (and his grandfather and father are killed in the process), Afghanistan veteran Thorin Oakenshield (rich, powerful and oh so terribly broken) sets out on a ludicrous mission of revenge to get back what was stolen from him- A.R.K.E.N.S.T.O.N.E., a highly advanced security program engineered by his father Thrain. Dragging along twelve other men (including his nephews Fili and Kili) and with the help of a shady government official known only as G, Thorin seeks out the help of Bilbo Baggins, a once-brilliant hacker now turned Tesco employee.<br/>Things seem to go smoothly, until Oakenshield starts to realize that Smaug is all up for a game of cat and mouse.<br/>And that he has no intention of losing.<br/>Add the fact that not-so-recovering alcoholic Thranduil Greenleaf (a brilliant, ruthless and very, <i>very</i> corrupt Scotland Yard police officer) is starting to dig a bit too deep, and things might get a little out of hand.<br/></p><p>
  <span class="small"><strong>Trigger Warnings:</strong> mentions of suicide/attempted suicide, mental illness, alcohol/drug addiction, self harm, violence, torture, physical/verbal abuse, and family issues.</span>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue: part one


      **OAKENSHIELD MANOR**  
     **ELEVEN THIRTY PM**  
     **JUNE TENTH**
    

There's a feeling in the back of his head, he thinks, but maybe it's just the humidity. A clutter and chitter and chatter, an unexpected uneasiness that hits the right spots between his eyebrows, a superficial tension he cannot nor doesn't want to stop and think about.

But it's uneasiness, nonetheless, uneasiness that sticks to his skin the same way sweat sticks to his arms, and Thorin Oakenshield taps an index against his windowpane to the darkness outside, and smirks at nothing, bitter, and maybe it's a smile to hide the fact that he can't sleep, or maybe it's the heat. 

"It's worse," he says and doesn't look at Balin, old time family friend, and swallows. "His obsession grows."

"Have you ever thought-"

"No. He's too old."

" _But maybe a hospital_ -"

"I _said_ -" Thorin turns and snaps, eyes darting with no real rage, just exhaustion. Until the words freeze, lodged in his throat.

The floorboards creak, and the house itself moans. For a moment. 

There's a muffled crash, somewhere. The sound of someone breaking in.

"Did you-" Thorin's blue eyes meet the older man's, and widen, for a second, breath nearly quiet. "... _did you hear that_?"

Balin nods, then, because yes, he _did_ hear it, and it's scared him more than he'd like to show. Thorin places a finger to his lips, and arches an eyebrow. Quietly, then, he makes his way to his father's desk (old ancient wood, bought thanks to money hoarded over the years by a family expert with business and able with gold), creaks a drawer opern ever so slowly. The gun he grabs is precaution, really, the paranoid safeguard of a grandfather so obsessed with his riches he suspects even of the maids on occasion, but yet it feels pleasant in his hand, a reassurance. Balin is no less equipped- his fingers grip a shiny black glock tightly, and through heartbeat progressively quickening, Thorin feels ever so grateful for having his back so closely watched.

They make their way down marble stairs, through a house placidly asleep, save for a Great Dane as nervous as his owner is: the dog is whining, scratching at the main door. There's something outside. Or something inside. Either way, there's  _something_.

And that something isn't good.

"Quiet, Durin. _Quiet_." Thorin whispers, hand petting the panicked canine's head, and then his back tenses, his jaw sets: gun resting for a moment against his forehead (cool against heat, sweat making eyes sting) and Oakenshield inhales, as adrenaline pumps and makes his hairs rise. 

The rumble comes from his right, though, from deep within the mansion's belly: for to the right is a stairway leading down to basements and cellars. And his head whips to the side, and then his mouth widens, in horror and disbelief as fire tears its way through the room.

The explosion screams.

Thorin yells, then, grabs Balin by the arm and they _run_ , rushing through the house. But fire burns and sinks its teeth into it all: into paintings and expensive furniture and antiquities, and into the Oakenshield family- into his father and grandfather and into his memories, a mother dead when he was a child, and although he  _tries_ , Thorin can't do it.

He can't save it all.

But he holds onto the hope, until the very last moment, as he searches through smoke, as his mind processes what has just happened, as his mind takes in the oranges and reds, the yellows, the _heat_ , and the sound of wood giving in under him, and his knees give out, and for a moment he sees black, and blood, and emptiness. So it's Balin's turn to grab his arm, to drag Thorin out of the mess, because the two men barely make it out alive, and the ceiling collapses as the house falls, and the floorboards bend and shatter.

They tumble onto the lawn outside, chest heaving, sweat dripping, throats raw and red and sore. And Thorin coughs, over and over. He coughs and curses between his teeth, and he knows he's crying, too, but never will he admit it. But the pain in his throat tells him differently.

He roars, then, hands shaking.

The police take too long, it takes too long, they arrive too late.

* * *
    
    
      **ONE AM**  
     **JUNE ELEVENTH**
    

"Name?"

"Oaken... _Oakenshield_ , Thorin."

"Occupation?"

"Is this really necessary?" Thorin suddenly snaps at the officer in front of him, teeth bared in a snarl. He's sitting on the edge of an ambulance, shock blanket tight around his shoulders. He'd take it off, he'd stand up, even, if they hadn't already forced him to sit back down five times in a row.

" _Uh_ \--"

"No, _it isn't_." and the voice is cold, and comes from a tall, thin blond, eyes shining brightly in the roaring fire that still hasn't been completely put out.  "It's fine, Tauriel- I'll take it from here."

Thorin's jaw suddenly tenses, as the Detective Inspector smirks wide and waves the girl away, crouches in front of the still-bleeding man.

"Thorin, what a _pleasure_ to see you."

" _Thranduil_." the other spats, teeth clashing. "It's been a while. _Far too little_."

Thranduil rolls his eyes and clears his throat. He brushes hair out of his face, and his thin lips are sealed tight over his teeth: his pallid, sharp face unscathed and untouched if it weren't for an ugly scar on the left side of his face.

"I'm truly sorry for this tragedy, Oakenshield,  _truly_ -"

"Get to the  _point_." 

Right now, he doesn't have the energy for the other man's slimy lies, the rhethorical hypocritical tales, the forced smiles whenever his grandfather donated funds to Scotland Yard, grin for the camera flash, strike a pose.

The police officer pulls his sleeves up, then, sighs, eyes lowered for a moment before his gaze meets the other's. 

"There were no survivors." he spats, matter-of-factly, eyes going grey and dull for a moment. "Apart from you and your friend, of course."

Thorin licks his lips and blinks, once, twice, hair matted, stuck to his face. He knew this.

The moment the roof collapsed in front of him. He knew this. 

"The vault. The  _vault_. My family's vault." (The explosion was just a decoy, and this is as plain as day).

Thorin has sensed that there's something _else_ in the officer's words, something hidden, an " _I know something you don't_ " kind of spark.

"We sent a few men to check: little to no signs of a break-in. The fire probably destroyed most of its contents."

_There it is_.

" _Bullshit_."

Thranduil furrows his brow, but the mask doesn't slip.

"I _heard_ -"

"Oakenshield, you could have heard anything-"

"I  _heard_ something. Balin  _heard_ something. Go ask him."

Inhale. Exhale. Suddenly, if it weren't a felony, Thorin knows he'd punch Thranduil in the face for the sick twisted pleasure he _knows_  the bastard's taking from telling him this, because they never liked eachother, never have and never will, but the smirk that's barely hidden is there, and the policeman could care less about the impact of the tale he's telling. Maybe he's protecting someone. Maybe he's protecting himself.

"There was-"

"No, you  _listen_. Right before the explosion, Greenleaf. There was  _something_."

"There was  _nothing_." Thranduil hisses. "Nothing at  _all_."

His voice is harsh and quick and a growl, nearly, a mouthful of venom, jaw trembling. 

"You're the _only one_ who can help-"

" _No_ , Oakenshield. No."

( _he said he'd kill my men_

( _he said he'd-)_

And with that Thranduil's up, and he's gone, teeth gritting.

Thorin shakes with rage.

The air still smells of ash.

* * *
    
    
      **LONDON**  
     **THREE AM**
    

The cab they take from the hospital smells of old cigarettes and stale alcohol, but for the first time Thorin relaxes, just a little, sighs as the back of his head hits the leather seat. Balin watches him as he shuts his eyes, furrows his brow. Worried.

"We'll have to organise the funerals." the older man says quietly.

"We'd bury ash."

" _Thorin_ -"

But he sits up, tears himself back from the illusion of sleep. The blue is back to ice, lost as it is in city lights.

" _I need to find the man who did this_ , Balin."

" _Right now_ , you need sleep."

"I've known you ever since I was a  _boy_. Balin-"

"And I've taken care of you when no one else would. Sit back, lad. Sleep."

Thorin licks his lips and cracks his knuckles, eyes darting from side to side. He thinks, for a moment, frantic.

"I know a man."

"Not now-"

"Just _listen_. For this once."

Balin sighs, rubs a hand over his face.

"I know a man. His name is G."

"...G?"

"Yes, _G_. He has... connections."

Balin doesn't say a word, but his eyes skit to the floor, and he seems sad, and empty. And in truth, they both do.

"He can help me find who did this."

"Not now, Thorin. _Not now_."

"You saw the _fire_ , Balin. That was no accident. _That was no Goddamn accident_." his voice gets a little too loud and their eyes meet, and Thorin swallows, pleading.

"I  _know_ , Thorin."

"Then  _trust me_."

They're quiet, for a second.  

" _Trust me_."

And just so, Balin can't help but nod.

* * *
    
    
      **LOCATION UNKNOWN**  
     **TIME UNKNOWN**  
     **DATE UNKNOWN**
    

[ message ] : i am in need of... assistance. - O.

[ message ] : Yet again a favor? - G.

[ message ] : the pay will be good. - O.

[ message ] : Retribution is of little importance to me. Nonetheless, I am intrigued. - G.

[ message ] : someone has taken something from me. - O.

[ message ] : The papers insist it was nothing but a gas leak. - G.

[ message [ _unsent, deleted_  ] ] : ~~how do you know?~~ \- O.

[ message ] : papers lie. often. - O.

[ message ] : Then you will need help. - G.

[ message ] : twelve extremely capable men i know have already been hired. but i need a hacker. - O.

[ message ] : Understood. - G.

_Your conversational partner has disconnected._

_Your conversational partner has connected._

[ message ] : The man you are looking for calls himself Smaug. Beware. - G.

_Your conversational partner has disconnected._


	2. prologue: part two


      **LONDON**
    
    
    
      **FOUR PM**
    
    
    
      **AUGUST FIFTEENTH**
    

"You've got a text. Or email. Dunno. Your phone just rang."

"Is it from Becca?"

"Do you want me to check?"

"Not really?"

"God, she must be desperate."

"Shut up."

The blond jokingly punches his brother in the shoulder and glares at him, scratches a bearded cheek before glancing at his phone.

"You figure it's about Thorin?"

Wet hair dripping into his eyes and a towel in his hand, he doesn't answer his brother's question, brow suddenly furrowed.

"Huh. Weird."

"Weird?"

He throws the phone at the other, who catches it in mid-air.

"Sender's number's blocked."

* * *

 
    
    
      **PRAGUE, CZECH REPUBLIC**
    
    
    
      **FOUR PM**
    
    
    
      **AUGUST FIFTEENTH  
    **
    

"Hey there, sweetheart."

He smirks at the other man, but the other's head droops forward, eyes rolling back in his skull.

"Nope, oh no. C'mon."

He smacks him lightly to wake him up again, wipes blood and sweat from his face with a pearly white handkerchief and surgical glove-clad hands, before cupping his cheek and looking straight into his desperate, pain-filled, pleading eyes.

" _Jak se daøí_?" he hisses, almost laughing, before standing up and stretching his back.  The other man coughs and his torso rattles against the back of the metallic chair he's been handcuffed to, breaths barely making their way past his teeth.

There's no one else in the industrial garage except for them.

Suddenly, a phone on the floor a few feet from them buzzes. The man clad in black curses under his breath and walks over to it, glancing towards his prisoner just to be safe (although the man is chained and devastated and can barely breathe, let alone talk- running away isn't really a possible option right now), picks it up and narrows his eyes as he reads.

"What the- Can you understand English? No? Perfect."

There's a phone call he needs to make.

* * *
    
    
      **LONDON**
    
    
    
      **FOUR PM**
    
    
    
      **AUGUST FIFTEENTH**
    

He hauls his bag over his shoulder and smacks his lips, savouring his first cigarette in three hours, as he cracks his tattooed hands and neck and thinks to himself he's growing too old for this job. But the pay is good and it takes his mind off of things- although he sometimes wishes he still had something of a moral compass.

His phone buzzes against his leg and he pulls it out of his pocket, reading a text he was expecting but that makes his trepidation grow nonetheless- things are starting to move, finally. What he doesn't expect, though, is the phone call that comes literally five seconds after.

"How the fuck did you get this number?"

"God, angel, did I miss hearing your voice."

"Fuck you."

He opens his house door and puts his bag down, fanning through unopened mail sitting on the counter. Bills, mainly. A postcard from Paris.

"I just got an anonymous text with nothing but an address in it, and  _something_  tells me you have something to do with it. Care to elucidate?"

"I just got home, sweetie, give me a second before I come and blow your brains out."

"So the job in Rome was  _yours_. Should've fucking known, you left your name plastered all over."

"My  _name_?"

"Yes. Your trademark sloppiness. Too much blood, too little fun."

He doesn't answer, opening the fridge and pulling a beer out. On the other side, the man whines and he rushes over to him, smacking him clean across the face to keep him quiet. He only moans louder.

"Am I interrupting something?"

"Nothing I can't put on hold for you, light of my life."

"Call me light of your life once more and I'm skinning you alive."

"Not if I do that to you first. Does the text have anything to do with that heist bullshit?"

"Smart thinking."

"Congratulations to Oakenshield for managing to pull his shit together long enough to organise this, I thought he was a fucking psycho."

The man's head starts drooping forward again, but he roughly grabs it and forces it upright. The man flinches but he holds his neck in place, hurting him much more than necessary before letting him go, running a hand through his hair and taking a few steps back, circling around him as if he's observing his latest masterpiece.

"Would it be an issue if the knife expert came along too?"

"Seriously?  _Your brother_?"

"Both of 'em, actually.  _Fun for the whole family_."

His voice drips with sarcasm, and it sounds as if he's barely holding back a giggle as he wipes drying blood off a carving knife on the same handkerchief used earlier (phone temporarily squeezed between his left shoulder and cheek), and then he squints and thinks for a moment.

"Shoot or break?" he then says.

"Excuse me?"

"Answer. Shoot or break?"

"Shoot."

"God, I love it when you know what I want."

And as he leans back against his kitchen table to comfortably sip on his beer, through the phone he hears the familiar sound of a gun being fired.

* * *
    
    
      **CANNES, FRANCE**
    
    
    
      **FOUR PM**
    
    
    
      **AUGUST FIFTEENTH**
    

He glances over at his brother, who's intently reading the news on his phone, as he's sipping on his cherry cola and fixing his hearing aid.

It's a hot sunny day and the beach is a wonderful place to be.

"So, any news about Sudan?"

"...Sudan? Sudan's been doing fine. They all hate each other and they've all been tearing their heads off, just how we want it. The SPLM-N is perfectly happy with its latest cargo, and we should be payed shortly."

He talks matter-of-factly, almost sounds bored with what he's saying.

"Checov said there's a shipment of M24s we might be interested in."

" _Checov_? Since when do you trust Checov?"

"Since he got rid of Dawson for me. Do you figure Peredhel ever got to the bottom of that?"

"If he had, we wouldn't be here."

The youngest of the two starts laughing, then, sunglasses shining in the sunlight, and his brother soon joins him- until, curiously, his phone bleeps.

[  _sender withheld_ ]

* * *

 
    
    
      **DUBLIN**
    
    
    
      **FOUR PM**
    
    
    
      **AUGUST FIFTEENTH**
    

"Exactly  _why_  are you phoning me right now?"

He leans back and inhales the cigarette smoke, "The police came over  _twice_  in the past three days." his brother barks on the other side.

"I'm somewhat  _busy_  right now."

"They  _know_."

"The Lady's known I was alive ever since I popped up in Cracow and G's been back on my trail for the past two months, at  _leas_ _t._ I've been doing this for ten years. _"_

_"But now you're getting **me**  involved_. Too involved."

He stands up and grimaces at the smell of gasoline as he empties the tank on the car, careful not to touch a thing unless his hands are covered (and they are, sleek black gloves doing their job).

"They didn't catch me then and they won't catch me now." 

He eyes the bodies (dead, at least this time) from behind the car window and taps on the glass as he talks into his earpiece, "You'll be safe. Can't you just tip someone off, for Chrissake?"

"I'm not ending like our cousin-"

"He was  _collateral damage._ I fucked up with him. You'll be fine."

He's about to flick his still burning cigarette onto the hood of the car, when suddenly his phone chimes: he's just gotten a text. 

"No shit." he says while reading it.

"I just got a text?"

"So did I- won't you look at that. He's actually gonna do it, the crazy bastard. This one's gonna be _fun_."

"Fun?"

"There's something about rich assholes running around convinced they're God that I've always found endearing, especially when they always end up dead no matter what. Say hi to Viktoriya for me."

"She doesn't want to talk to you."

"Why does this not surprise me," he smirks, before putting the phone down. He flicks his cigarette onto the car then, and it's pretty how it burns.

* * *
    
    
      **LONDON**  
     **THREE FORTY FIVE PM**  
     **AUGUST FIFTEENTH**
    

There's something endearing, Bilbo Baggins thinks, about summer days that are both not unbearably hot and yet sunny at the same time, something unnaturally precious about them. He thinks so while sitting on the floor of his living room, watching as light pools in from the windows, wondering whether it's worth the effort to stand up and open one of them, but maybe simply staring at gold fractured on the floor is already quite relaxing. If it were permitted, he'd almost even be smoking.

But for now he just enjoys his day off from work, toes wriggling on the cheap red carpet, thinking whether he wants to grab a beer from the fridge or not, ice or no ice, and maye some lemon, maybe just a coke. Nonetheless, he stands up, stretches back and legs with a satisfied sigh.

He makes his way to the kitchen, then.

Only to find a man sitting at his table: tall, impossibly tall, suit and black leather gloves and a coat, long, hanging behind him on a hanger, sunglasses tucked away in his breastpocket, short white hair. He's leaning on one of his arms, elbow against white plastic, thumb tucked under his chin, index and middle tapping against his lips. Bright blue eyes scan his surroundings.

"How--how did you get into my house? And-"

"The  _how_  doesn't matter, Bilbo Baggins."

Mouth open, eyes blinking, Baggins furrows his brow, taking the scene in once more.

"Who.  _Who are you_? And why, in God's name, are you here?"

The man shifts, hands now laced together and resting on the table, before he stands up, and they disappear behind his back.

"You may call me G."

Straight out of a spy novel, Bilbo thinks. He'd laugh if he wasn't completely dumbfounded (and if he wasn't frantically wondering how to make his way to the phone without the other man noticing).

"... _do I know you_?"

"No, and I do not assume you should," G quietly says, lost in observing a stack of magazines which are, quite not conveniently, placed right next to the phone.

"And so you just...  _plop into my house like that_? "

"I did not "plop in", Bilbo Baggins, I am here to discuss extremely important matters with you. That require your help."

Bilbo's eyes widen, and he nearly laughs.

" _My help_? I work five days a week at Tesco's. Whatever your... "matters" are, I don't think I'll be interested. You  _break into_  my house,  _uninvited_ , dressed like you're some long lost member of the Men in Black, _I have no idea who or what you work for_ , and then you assume I'll just jump up at whatever... crap you throw at me? My life's already hectic as it is, I don't need some loon adding to it,  _whoever you are_."

He treads across the room, then, more puzzled than ever, in broad wide frantic steps, and opens a door which is already ajar (and he clearly remembers closing).

"So thank you for taking interest in me, mister... _G_. But there is no way  _I_  am interested in  _you_." 

And with that he smiles, sarcastic and panicked, and the tall man grabs his coat, sighing, and makes his way out.

(Bilbo is sure to slam the door behind him, lock it twice.)

* * *
    
    
      **LONDON**  
     **THREE FIFTY NINE PM**  
     **AUGUST FIFTEENTH**
    

[ mass text ] : Tomorrow evening, London. 45, Nobleton Road. I have found your man. - [ sender withheld ]

* * *
    
    
      **BALIN'S HOME**  
     **FOUR PM**  
     **AUGUST FIFTEENTH**
    

He snatches his phone up even before it finishes ringing, and although G's taken, at least this time, the precaution of keeping himself relatively in the dark (for now), Thorin can't help but smirk as he reads the text, quick and dry and, ultimately, a relief, something that sends a flutter in his chest, what could be a heartbeat. Revenge mainly, but it is  _something_. _  
_

_And just like that._

_It begins_.


	3. part one

## I.
    
    
    The gods are fallen and all safety gone. 
    And there is one sure thing about the fall of gods: they do not fall a little; they crash and shatter or sink into green muck.  
    It is a tedious job to build them up again; they never quite shine.  
    And the child’s world is never quite whole again.  
    It is an aching kind of growing.

John Steinbeck, **East of Eden**


	4. i


      **LONDON**  
     **SEVEN PM**  
     **AUGUST SIXTEENTH**
    

"Yeah, yeah. Tall, unbelievably tall, sixty-ish years old, maybe? Did I call the-- No, I didn't call the-- I mean, he left when I told him, so. Come back? Drogo, he was  _a nut job_ , Drogo, it's fine. He was innocuous. No, don't worry, I don't need you or Primula to come over. I'm sure. Yeah."

He takes the fish out of the sizzling pan, phone squeezed between shoulder and cheek, somehow manages to slap it onto a plate without burning himself too much.

"I'm  _perfectly fine_ , Drogo. Really. Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine."

The doorbell rings, then, suddenly, which makes Bilbo Baggins furrow his brow and, seeing the most recent developments, not unwisely.

"Uh, someone just rang. Yeah. Well. Good luck with your job and all that. Yeah, yeah.  _Bye_."

The phone shuts with a  _click_  and Bilbo wipes his hands before making his way to the door ("I'm  _coming_!"), and glancing quickly through the peephole. A tall, burly man, from what he can tell, who right in that moment rings again: loud, and  _obnoxious_.

Bilbo cracks the door open.

"Uh... can I help you?" he inquires through the hole.

The other man, huge and wrapped in a leather coat, glares at him.

"That, we'll see."

He pushes the door open and marches past Bilbo with nothing more than a glance, backpack slung over his shoulder, before stopping in the middle of the entryway. Which is exactly when Bilbo realizes the man in front of him is covered,  _literally covered_ , in tattoos. From his fingers to his hands, up to the swirls creeping up from under his rolled-up sleeves, even his scalp (shaven, bald?) shines under the lights, blue marked into it forever.

"Dwalin." he then snaps, and it takes Bilbo a dumbfounded moment to realize he's referring to his name.

"B-Bilbo Baggins. Uh. You're sure you don't...  _need_  anything?"

Dwalin glances around, eyebrow arched, "D'you have food?"

"Uh. Ah. Yes, well, I mean. Dinner's just on the table but-" he sighs the minute the other man rushes into the kitchen, sits at his place and attacks the potatoes, "-or. Or that could work too."

The doorbell rings, again, and Bilbo starts wondering whether he's just gone insane, period, and this is just a hallucination, and the white-haired, old, smiling man in front of him is, then, probably the nicest-looking hallucination he's ever met, and it takes him five seconds or more to realize that not only is he hallucinating, he's also barking mad for thinking anyone is a hallucination in the first place.

Maybe.

" _Balin MacFundin._  Pleased to meet you."

"Are. Are you sure this is the right house, because-"

"Balin!"

The old man's head shoots up and he smiles, genuinely happy. "Dwalin? I thought I was the first-"

"... _I guess it is_."

Bilbo's shoulders sag as Balin trudges past him ("'Scuse me, boy."), and he rolls his eyes. The two men embrace. Bilbo just stares.

Balin smiles at his younger brother and looks him up and down, and the silence is awkward (but Baggins has no right nor means to know this).

The tattooed man scoffs, genuinely happy to see his brother, and slaps Balin on the back and knocks out two teeth, probably, seeing as how the other coughs for about a minute and a half afterwards.

"Do you. Ah. Would you like some water?" Bilbo peeks in.

"No, no thank you. Some food would be nice, though, actually."

"I just pulled some chicken out of the fridge, Balin. You don't mind, of course?"

Dwalin's question is directed at Bilbo.

Bilbo's not so sure, but he thinks he hears himself whine.

They take it as a yes.

* * *

 "So. You're sure this is the right place?"

"Positive."

"Positive?"

"Absolutely. Bilbo... Boggins, ah, yes. There we go."

"... _Boggins_?"

"Yes. Boggins. Why?"

The blond shoves his brother aside and squints, reading the name on the doorbell.

"It says Baggins here."

"No, it's  _Boggins_."

Bilbo clenches his fists and grits his teeth the moment he hears the doorbell ring again.

When he opens the door, there's two men (much younger than the others) standing in front of him, a wide, shit-eating grin planted on both of their faces.

"Fili," the blond exclaims. His brown haired companion outstretches his hand, "And I'm Kili! You must be Mister Boggins!"

Bilbo stares at the outstretched hand, blinks, then looks back up. "Not. No, not really. It's  _Baggins_ , actually. And, uh,  _you're not welcome here_. Wrong house and all that."

Fili glares at his brother with a look that leaves one, and only one interpretation:  _I fucking told you it was Baggins,_ and Bilbo starts to shut the door again, when Kili pushes himself through it, mop of curly nearly black hair falling in front of his eyes: " _You mean it's been cancelled_?"

" _But he_   _said_ -" Fili starts, and is cut short by a very tiny and very frustrated Bilbo.

"Who said  _what_? And what's been--  _Nothing_ 's been cancelled, there wasn't even-"

"Well, that's good to hear." Kili smirks, and pushes his way through.

Bilbo decides to give up entirely.

Fili follows his brother and gives Baggins a small nod, before taking his coat off and plopping it in his arms, grin back in place, along with twin glocks. 

"Hold onto those for me." he winks, too.

Bilbo's eyes widen, his jaw drops.

" _Are these_ -"

"Fili! Kili! Come help us, will ya?" Dwalin waves the two over, "Move the table into the living room, there's no room for all of us here."

"Could you please just not. Break anything?"

"Sure thing," Kili yelps as he grabs the table.  _Sure enough_ , there's a crash right afterwards. 

Just to make matters worse, the doorbell rings once again. Bilbo thinks he might choke someone, as he hurriedly dumps coats and...  _guns_ onto a chair and rushes to open.

"If this is- if this is  _anyone else_ , anyone. I swear. If this is some fucking bastard's ridiculous idea of a joke- whoever. Whoever thought this was funny, well, then I have to say-" he briskly opens the door, fuming, and it would _all_  be nice and dandy, if eight other people didn't storm into his house all of a sudden, leaving Bilbo very pissed, and very not listened to.

But there's an ninth man, standing in front of him. Tall, unbelievably tall, clad in black. Sunglasses resting on his nose, he peers in, smirks when he sees Baggins.

"It's...  _you_."

"Well, of course it is- who else could it be?"

* * *

There is something that feels very much like a migraine steadily pounding its way through Bilbo Baggins' skull, and whatever it is, it looks very much like thirteen ruthless men tearing their way through his fridge, freezer and pantry. 

He sighs and looks on, defenseless.

"Right, well then," G says, cigarette dangling from a lip as he turns and starts counting: "Bofur ( _handlebar mustache,_  is the first thing Bilbo notices,  _and why can't he just set that sodding briefcase_ down _?_ ), Bombur ( _he's eating all my cheese_ ), Bifur ( _that man has a_ bullet  _lodged in his skull_ ), Nori ( _relatively harmless_ ), Ori ( _probably the youngest_ ), Dori ( _he used up all my chamomile_ ), Oin ( _that man can't hear a thing for the love of his mother_ ), Gloin ( _good gracious please don't tell me that's a rifle_ ), Dwalin ( _tattoos_. And lots of them.), Balin ( _probably the only one with manners_ ), Fili ( _metalhead, AC/DC shirt... guns_ ), Kili ( _that man called me_ Boggins) and..." he stops, then, glances around and then inquisitively at the burly, tattooed man.

"He's had problems," Dwalin explains, eyebrow arched, "but no worries. He'll be here soon."

"Well, I do hope so." the other replies, pouring himself a glass of wine. 

It's when he catches a glimpse of Bofur lighting the stove and nearly catching on fire that Bilbo springs up, and hurriedly ushers G into a nearby, luckily, empty room.

"All right. I didn't call the police the minute you all stepped into here. Or, even better. I didn't call the police the minute I found  _you_ in my dining room-"

"You didn't? Well, pity. That could've been fun."

Bilbo blinks.

"Of course. Yes. I'm certain of that. But anyway, I'm not having you lot arrested, although there's men with  _guns_ eating  _my_  tomatoes and sitting in  _my_  living room, mainly because I am a good person with a good job and I want no-"

"Bilbo, there is nothing to worry about."

" _They destroyed my kitchen_. They wrecked my home. I think I have _a lot_  to worry about right now, adding to the fact that  _I have no idea whatsoever as to why you're here_ -"

"These are respectable gentlemen, who would never dream of-"

Through the doorway, they can see that Fili jumps on the table and kicks a piece of God knows what at his brother, misses him, and gets it shoved right back at him.

"...you were  _saying_?" Bilbo hisses.

G smirks and shakes his head.

"You'll get used to them, eventually." he adds, and pats the dumbfounded Tesco employee on the shoulder, before leaving him be. 

"Could you at least avoid tearing those curtains to pieces, please? They were my mother's!" he calls out, as the men sitting around his dining room table, lopsided and laughing, drinking and chewing with their mouths open and throwing his cutlery and toasting for old times' sake wolf down yet another roast, and tear their way through Bilbo's sunday evening frozen dinners.

The migraine is currently punching Baggins in the left eye. Repeatedly. When, after Bofur throws a plate and Kili catches it, sending it zooming through the hallway to meet with his brother's elbow, who sends it on top of an already dangerously swiveling pile with just the twitch of an arm, the doorbell rings ( _again_ ) and all fall deadly quiet.

G stands up, stubbing out yet another cigarette (Bilbo thinks, for a moment, that he should warn him that his landlord doesn't allow smoking), and swallows.

" _He's_   _here_."


	5. ii

Bilbo doesn't make it to the door on time, because G is tall and quick and opens it instead of him, and as Baggins frets behind him he catches a glimpse of the others crowding around, of Kili and Fili pushing their way to the front (and Fili ties his messy, dirty blond hair in an even messier ponytail, and Kili just sniggers and shakes his head).

But, most importantly, Bilbo catches a glimpse of the man who's just arrived.

Tall, almost as tall as G, large shoulders wrapped in a dark coat, the faintest hint of stubble (almost as if he hadn't even noticed it growing on his face, or _had time_ to notice it), dark hair already splashed with grey. And the eyes, blue and icy and dark, look everything from annoyed to plain pissed off.

He flicks something off of his coat and furrows his brow at G, "Could you have chosen a less impossible place to find? I lost my way.  _Twice_ ," he snaps as he steps in, glancing around the flat and slipping his coat off. His eyes meet Kili and Fili's for a fraction of an instant, and his frown becomes an affectionate smirk, a nod passed between the three that goes by virtually unnoticed. An eyebrow gets arched almost playfully, and then he focuses his blue eyes onto Bilbo.

"Bilbo, allow me to introduce to you Thorin Oakenshield, the-" G starts, but the other outstretches a hand before he can even finish, and shakes Bilbo's vigorously.

"Ah, so this must be our _man_."

Bilbo blinks at the newcomer's words and glares at G, and then back at him.

"... _man_?"

"...tell me, Baggins. How good are you with a firearm?" Oakenshield asks, cutting Bilbo short of any thought of any doubt as to why exactly a bunch of burly men have crash-landed into his apartment and have all of a sudden declared him "their man".

"I have two guns I've never seen before stuffed on a chair in the other room, if you're interested. And I have a...  _butter knife_? Somewhere in my dishwasher."

A general giggle runs through the crowd assembled at Bilbo's hint of annoyed sarcasm. Thorin, however, just frowns at him. 

"Something told me this was going to happen."

"I _mean_ , I..."

"... _you_?"

Lucky for everyone, G cracks his knuckles and rubs his hands together right about then (somehow carefully avoiding the subject of whatever Thorin could have _possibly_ meant when saying "man") and quickly ushers Oakenshield and the rest of the crowd (Dwalin gives Thorin's shoulder a slight squeeze, and Thorin gives him a faint, tired smile) back into the living room, where Oakenshield grabs a chair.

He's quiet, for some time, and fourteen pairs of eyes stare at him (thirteen expectantly, one somehow worried) as he nibbles on bread and lights himself a cigarette (the rectangular and silver case glistens in the light for a second as he tucks it back into his breast pocket) and sighs to himself.

"I'm happy to see you all got here safely." 

Ash falls on the tablecloth and Bilbo nearly squeaks (because, after all, he's _just washed it_ ) but Thorin looks back up, and starts talking again: "I think we all know why we're here. And I wanted to thank you, first off. For agreeing to come."

There's movement, then, as Thorin grabs and places his bag onto the table, snaps it open and pulls out clippings, and papers, and photographs.

A bitter smirk leaves his lips.

"As far as we know, the... _fire_  was caused by a man who names himself  _Smaug_ _._ And as of recent, he's been spotted in Russia, Chile and Cambodia. _Presumably_ , of course. But that's where we'll start." 

Plates and cups are moved aside as he spreads out the files he's brought with him, and the others crowd around, peering over them.

G's eye falls onto the piles and piles of information obsessively catalogued, the underlined text, the circled pictures, the post-its and the questions, the answered and unanswered ones- horribly, terrifyingly, frustratingly unanswered. 

He raises a hand and suddenly asks to be excused from the table. ("Just for a second".)

A few moments later, he's back.

And he's holding something: a tiny, black USB key.

"I believe this one is yours."

Thorin stares at it for a moment, and he swallows and his eyes shine. He grabs it when G hands it to him, and, for a second, almost seems scared to even hold it.

Maybe _humbled_ is the right word.

"How did you.  _How did you get this_? I thought it'd been destroyed in the explosion, along with-"

"I have my ways." G says, and smiles, and winks. Oakenshield shuts his hand and squeezes the USB, almost seems to nod to himself.

"What's in it?" Bofur asks.

"Access codes. Locations. Tracking systems, security files. Anything and everything that has ever concerned or interested my family. _Vital information_ about men like Smaug. Like _Azog_  (and his voice cracks on the _z_ and on the _o_ just a little, and for a moment it hurts like it always has)."

Thorin holds it up for everyone to see.

"It's our first step to bringing Smaug down to his knees. The closest thing to A.R.K.E.N.S.T.O.N.E. we have right now."

"A.R.K.E.N.S.T.O.N.E.?"

This time, it's Bilbo's turn to sound puzzled.

"Advanced Research and _K_ ommunication Elements within National Security Terminals and Organizations for the Neutralization of Evil. It's a series of computer programming codes, my father's greatest intelligence development, a _vital cog to be_  in the Lady's future projects. If it hadn't been destro- _Stolen_ during the fire."

Thorin talks without looking at Bilbo, he talks staring at the space straight ahead of him.

"I asked G to help me.  _Us_. In this mission. Knowing it is something he'd be interested in, knowing it is something he is good at. Which is why I asked him to find a hacker for us. The best he could think of."

Thorin glances over his shoulder to Bilbo, who's been standing right behind them all, worriedly leaning against the doorway. 

"... _A hacker_?" Baggins asks, as if startled, quickly making his way to the table.

"Yes. A hacker."

"...and you just glanced at. Me."

"Exactly."

Bilbo's mouth hangs open for a second and he looks at G, frantically. 

"What do you mean by-"

"What he means is that we're gonna be ripping heads off, and we need someone able to cover us up while we do so," Dwalin snarls, "and he's gotta be quick, and he's gotta be smart, and he's gotta be careful not to get his brains blown out."

Bilbo blinks and swallows loudly. "Did you just say. Uh. _Brains blown out_?"

"Yes."

"Ah."

He's quiet for a moment.

"And you're sure G told you my name?"

"Of course I did." is G's sombre reply. He's been observing their antics with a small, amused smile on his face.

" _Absolutely_ ," Thorin hisses, "and there's even a contract you can sign."

"A  _contract_? I haven't even-"

But before he knows it, he's clutching a small stack of paper in one hand, and a plane ticket to Phnom Penh, Cambodia in the other. Baggins stares at them, dumbfounded, extremely confused, and completely unaware of what's actually going on.

"It says  _funeral expenses_ here." he whispers after having skimmed through it. 

"Of course it does."

"... _funeral expenses_."

"Well, you heard MacFundin over there," Bofur suddenly chimes in. "We're about to go against the biggest criminal mastermind of our age. A monster whose name isn't even certain. You know. Mass murders, explosions, kidnapping. The whole mess... It's not exactly _a cruise_ we're talkin' about."

Bilbo stares at him, long and hard, before turning towards G: 

" _Can I talk to you for a moment_?"

* * *

Bilbo sets the papers down onto a pile of socks once G's followed him into the laundry room.

"The. The fire he talked about, earlier. I mean. He's not. You know. He's not  _the_ Oakenshield, is he? The chap who's been all over the news. Who got caught up in that Afghanistan mess a few years back?"

"Who else do you think it could be?"

Bilbo runs a hand over his face. "Oh God."

He seems to think, for a second, words about to be said but quickly silenced.

"I can't do this."

" _You did it before_."

"That was seven years ago. That _nearly got me arrested_. That wasn't a psychopath who blows people up for fun and and and,  _and robs people of their fortune_. Smaug or however the fuck he's called has  _killed people_ and I can't just go-"

"You cracked and broke into some of the country's best-protected systems."

"Yeah. Right. _How do you even know that was me_?"

" _It doesn't matter_. But you're one of the best out there and there's no denying it."

"I haven't done something like this in a lifetime."

"Well then, isn't it time to start again?"

Bilbo taps his fingers against the table and squeaks, nervous and shaking and growing increasingly panicked and mad.

"No. No, I can't. It's taken me so  _long_ to build this life again and I don't care how much they'll pay or what greater cause I'm helping I can't. Do this. I don't want my brains blown out by a maniac with a gun. Or a bomb. Either way. I've left that world behind, and it wasn't even a  _world to begin with_."

"Bilbo, listen-"

"Hacking was a  _hobby_ , and I will admit to it being a hobby I took  _way_ too far, but that's all it was. I have no intention to end up caught in any...  _heist_ of any demented sort."

" _You broke into MI5_."

" _Nearly_ broke into MI5. And that's when I realized it was time to  _stop_."

"You're the only one who got that close."

"Yeah, and I'm still surprised they didn't lock me up and  _throw away the key_. I can't risk another time."

"But you won't be  _risking_ this time. There are _guarantees_."

Bilbo points at the shut door behind him.

"A man out there just told me I _am very much at risk_ of getting my brains blown out."

"That's  _different_."

"Yeah. Yeah,  _exactly._ You're all  _insane_. Each and every one of you. You can't go... running around like some modern-day pirates or something, breaking into things, getting back fortunes. It's ridiculous. You're all  _completely bonkers_."

" _Bilbo_ -"

"No. I'm not doing this.  _I don't even know who you are, you've just popped out of the Goddamn blue in the middle of my living room._ I'm sorry. I just can't.  _You've found the wrong man_."

And with that he unceremoniously, nervously and quickly marches out of the room, through the hall and into his bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him.

* * *

"Well, I guess that's the end of that."

Balin glances at Bilbo whizzing by as he's sat on a couch, a mug of coffee in his hand. Thorin's leaning against the wall opposite.

"No matter, we can find someone else. He didn't seem like the type anyway."

"Do _we_?"

Thorin smirks and scratches the back of his neck, lets a finger ghost for a moment where a scar begins. But he pulls it away almost immediately, and there's a quiver somewhere along his spine.

" _You_ are people I can trust."

"Don't tell me this isn't _mad_ , Thorin."

"Oh, it is. But I have, _nothing_ , to, lose, do I? Does anyone else? Does anyone, here, have _anything_ to lose? Why would they join, if not for that? Or for the money I've promised, the glory? Whatever reason it is, Balin, these men are _with_ me."

"I know."

"I have an entire key full of my father and grandfather's documents, which is _nothing_ compared to what we can still obtain but it is  _something_. Smaug has taken everything from me, from my family, from what little was left of me _after_ -"

"You said it yourself, didn't you?"

Thorin clenches his jaw and sighs.

"Said what?"

"That we're with you. And we are. We all are. And you know it. These are friends, and accomplices. And family. And we're in this. _We all are_."

Oakenshield lights himself another cigarette. He doesn't say anything, for a while. 

"Thank you." he finally whispers, and Balin stands up and pats him on the back.

"One last thing. Balin?  _Balin_."

"What is it, laddie?"

"Plane's at ten AM sharp tomorrow. _Early start_."


	6. iii


      **LONDON, HEATHROW AIRPORT**  
    
    **FOUR THIRTY AM**  
    
    **MARCH SIXTEENTH**  
    
    **2002**
    

He wakes up after having, maybe even blisfully, dozed off for nothing but mere moments, and with a jolt, as the airplane hits the ground. The plane slows down, he buries his face in his palms and presses hard, as hard as he can, and he sits there for a few more moments, brow furrowed and eyes still squeezed tight, as he hears machinery move and whizz and scream around him, and then it finally quiets down, and Thorin realizes he's been holding his breath all along.

His head hurts, although _hurt_ isn't the right word: it's a throb, low and definite and terrifying, a sensation he's sickly grown accustomed to, a sensation he embraces because it's one of the million little things he's learned to love about himself, one of the million little things that have spelled out " _I am still human, I am still in control_ " during the last four months: pain being so _vital_ , so _fundamental_ , so all-encompassing that any hurt not inflicted upon him by others has become _his_ , let this be stomachache or migraine or a finger left too long under hot water. It is something to sink his teeth into and hold onto desperately.

"Right. Well then. We're  _home_." someone says, and pats his back. The bandages feel tight, too tight. It hurts.

He knows he should feel relieved.

He knows he should feel  _something_.

* * *

He stares straight ahead and he stares above, to a sky so dark he can't even recognize, to rows and rows of streetlights and buildings and empty homes, empty houses, empty nothings.

And it all feels so _unreal_ , even the man sitting next to him is more smoke and mirrors than anything else, although he knows the tattooed hands gripping the steering wheel far too well and the ever present leather jacket, the geometry of ink making its way up Dwalin's neck. But nothing feels real and nothing's felt real for so long that Thorin doesn't even know what's there and what isn't, and deep down he knows and tells himself the locked room that is his brittle skull is the only thing he can rely on.

Even though it's choking him.

Even though, right now, all he wants to do is disappear.

" _How_ -" but Dwalin sighs before the whole sentence even makes it past his lips to crack the murky, grey silence around them, because the scope of _this_ is, right now, just too much to bear.

 _This_ doesn't happen to you.

The people you love don't get  _kidnapped_. Your... oh, _curse them all_ , your best friend doesn't get  _kidnapped_. This happens to other people, to the people you see on TV, to the news reporters, but it's always  _someone else_ , it's someone else's daughter and son and niece and sister, it's never your friend, never your brother, your uncle, your family.

It can't be them because you cannot let yourself allow it. 

But right now, it is. It's your brother and uncle and it's your friend who's huddled in a coat that used to fit him fine and now's too big, who's hiding bandages under a thin blue shirt, whose bright blue eyes look so dark they're almost black.

 _Deep breaths_ , Dwalin tells himself.  _Deep breaths_.

The shards of the sound of air passing through Dwalin's nose make Thorin want to be even smaller as guilt rushes over him and pulls him down even deeper, and suddenly he's manically rushing through moments and memories in the quiet of his own bones, a soundless playback hitting the back of his teeth as he clenches his eyes shut once more, and it does nothing to isolate him from the nest of old familiar pain he's just created for himself. Because he welcomes this emptiness.

Thorin Oakenshield is a perfectly trained dog. 

 _Fetch_ , they yell at him and he brings back his trembling begging hands stained with blood. _Roll over_ , they hiss and he obeys, and it hurts more than nails being ripped from his fingers. 

 _Play dead_ , and he wishes he could.

But the three words that are about to be uttered hurt more than anything in this world, and leave him feeling completely blank.

" _How are you_?" Dwalin finally wills himself to ask, and the sight of city lights suddenly make Thorin want to vomit. Or maybe it's just the sound of another human being's voice. Or maybe it's both.

Or maybe it's nothing.

"I'm a fucking  _war hero_ ," he hisses after scoffing.

 _Bitter_.

* * *
    
    
      **LONDON, HEATHROW AIRPORT**  
    
    **NINE THIRTY AM**  
    
    **AUGUST SEVENTEENTH**  
    
    **2013**
    

"I told you he was going to be a waste of time."

Thorin, sitting cross-legged on the airport floor, looks up from his laptop, startled. Dwalin's standing next to him, paper cups of coffee in hand. He hands him one and Oakenshield gives him a small smirk: "He was a _Tesco employee_ , I don't know what G was thinking."

"I'm sorry. I know how much you were looking forward to him."

Thorin shrugs and stares blankly at the screen for a moment before snapping it shut, its contents hidden away with the key he unplugs and slips into his pocket. Dwalin eyes it.

"Anything useful?"

"It's _encrypted_."

Thorin doesn't mention how his father never left him any way of unlocking it, nor spoke of it in passing. He doesn't mention how not even his _father_ trusted him, his oldest son, his brothers' keeper,  _all the way_. He doesn't mention it but his jaw clenches, slightly, nonetheless.

"So we  _do_ need someone good enough to crack it."

His half-smirk turns into a bitter smile and then he stands up (Dwalin helping him) and packs his things away, glances around as he sips his coffee. He grimaces and jokingly glares at Dwalin.

"You forgot the sugar."

"Well, I-"

"I know _you_ take it without sugar," Thorin snorts. "That doesn't mean that  _everybody else_ takes it without sugar."

* * *
    
    
      **NINE THIRTY THREE AM**
    

He's never been one for running. A quiet, small, _not exactly fit_ type, Bilbo wonders  _why_ exactly he's rushing through Heathrow airport in a mad jog to international departures, at nine thirty in the morning, on a day when everyone and their mother seems to have chosen to leave.

"Sorry!" he exclaims as he bumps into yet another carry on, "sorry, sorry again, I am  _so_ sorry ma'am, so sorry."

But then again, he'd never thought he'd find thriteen armed men and a long-lost member of the Men in Black sitting in his dining room and eating his roast, either, so then again, life does have its surprises.

 _And its completely delirious decisions_ , Bilbo thinks to himself, literally doubting every step he's taking and every half-hearted apology he mumbles as he steps on a toe (or was it a dog?) and rambles past the boarding pass clenched in his teeth as he fumbles with his passport, contract stuffed somewhere in his backpack.

" _Sorry about that_ , SORRY."

* * *
    
    
      **NINE FORTY ONE AM**
    

Thorin grins at the tiny blonde stweardess at the gate desk, boarding pass neatly printed out and unfolded in front of him.

"Hi, hi, Hey. Uhm. There was another member in our party, his name's Bilbo Baggins and we'd already made a reservation for him. He couldn't...  _come_ , unfortunately."

The grin widens, and he feels like something dangerously close to a liar.

"If it isn't a problem, of course."

"Not at all."

She smiles back, red painted nails tapping away at her keyboard for a few seconds, but then, unexpectedly, her brow furrows.

"It says here he checked in twenty minutes ago."

Thorin blinks for a moment.

"He _what_?"

"Checked in, sir. His bags and all that. Last one, too. Close call."

"I don't think-"

"... _WAIT_!"

Thorin flips around, obviously startled, (followed by everyone else, from Fili to Ori to G) as a very short of breath, very panicky Bilbo skits to a halt in front of them, and nearly falls.

"I'm. Here," he finally manages to wheeze out, passport and tickets safely clutched in his hand. Thorin arches an eyebrow and glances up at G, who glances back and raises his shoulders,  _I know less about this than you do_.

"I. Signed the contract. Also." Baggins mumbles, fishing the piece of paper out of his bag and handing it to Balin, who skims over it and inspects the signature closely before giving it over to Oakenshield, who does the same.

"Very well," he says curtly, matter-of-factly, after a few seconds of intent squinting.

* * *

It's after they're well up in the air that Thorin makes his way to G's seat, happy to find the one next to it temporarily vacant.

"You _knew_ he'd come back."

"I had my doubts."

Thorin scoffs and glances over at Bilbo, a few seats back, who's currently struggling with the in-flight entertainment system.

"And you're sure about him?"

" _Someone_ has to be, Oakenshield."

Thorin leans closer towards G, icy cold eyes swirling dark.

"I _won't_ be responsible if his brains get blown out. We're all grown men."

G sips his drink and placidly eyes him.

" _Of course_."

"Nor will I be responsible for whatever mess he gets himself in. He's a Tesco employee with some... _hacking experience_ , half of the others have served in the army. I trust him because  _you_ trust him, and God help me if I know why you  _do_."

G pats Thorin on the back and the other man tenses almost immediately, natural reaction.

"Because _you_ never will."


	7. iv

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can now find the heistverse on [**tumblr**](http://fyeahheistverse.tumblr.com) too.
    
    
      **SOMEWHERE UP IN THE AIR**  
    
    **NO, SERIOUSLY**
    

Bilbo's just started to fall asleep after having given up on getting the small television screen to work when, suddenly, someone (some _two_ , actually) sits right next to him.

Startled back awake, he's greeted by two pearly-white, bastard, arrogant grins: Fili's comfortably sitting in the seat to his left, and Kili's sitting in the one to his right.

“Where's Ori?” Baggins asks, blinking.

“Loo break,” the blond answers. “Even knowledge must heed nature's call.”

Kili snorts. Fili pats Bilbo on the back.

“Anyway, it's come to our attention that you literally have no idea whatsoever of who we are. I mean, honestly, why in God's name did you even  _get_ on the plane with us?”

“For all you could know, we might be serial killers.”

“Mass murderers.”

“Members of a  _cult_.”

“I'm pretty sure you're not really any of that. I hope.  _Maybe_ ,” Bilbo swallows loudly, “at least  _most of you_.”

“Well, Fili's a vegetarian. So you might want to watch out with him.”

“ _Uh_ -”

“Don't listen to my brother, he's an idiot.”

“ _But_ , since we already like you and we feel we should repay you for letting us fuck your shit up completely, we're going to give you a crash course in The Fine Assholes of Oakenshield's Thirteen.”

“Oakenshield's  _what_?”

“I  _told_  you, Kili's an  _idiot_.”

“...isn't that a George Clooney movie?”

“My dearest Bilbo, we are  _exponentially_  more attractive than George Clooney ever was. HOWEVER,” and Kili points to Thorin, sitting and talking in hushed whispers with G, “ _that_  is one thou doth not fucketh with. _Thorin Oakenshield_.”

“You've  _probably_  heard about him.”

“He's kind of really rich.”

“Also our uncle."

Bilbo stares at Fili for a second, blinking.

"Your...  _what_?"

"Kili and Fili  _Oakenshield_ ," the oldest chirps out, soon followed by Kili: " _At your service_."

Bilbo immediately thinks that those two are the last people he'd ever want to have at his service, and also wonders what kind of service they could  _ever_  possibly offer that didn't involve partying and copious amounts of alcohol. And guns, too, apparently. Which suddenly makes him wonder:

 _How on Earth had they gotten their weapons past airport security_?

"Next to him," Kili continues, almost as if he'd been reading Baggins' thoughts, "sits G. We know nothing about him."

"Literally jack shit."

"He knows our phone numbers and gets us to places and makes it so we don't all get arrested for carrying a bunch of guns around. Also, I am about a million times sure those  _aren't_  normal cigarettes."

Fili grins at his brother and they give each other a conspiratorial glance Bilbo  _definitely_  doesn't feel like interpreting, before Fili stands up and turns around, elbows resting on the seatback.

"Down there sits Dwalin.  _Hi Dwalin_ ," and he does a little wave and widens his grin.

Dwalin glares at him and goes back to reading his magazine.

"You know the cool uncle who buys you shit and teaches you how to ride a bike? Yeah. Then he disappeared for two years. He's our uncle's BFF."

"Or secret gay lover."

"We're not sure yet," adds Fili, and both brothers giggle.

"He seems to. Uh. Like tattoos," Bilbo timidly peeps behind his shoulder to glance at the other man, who placidly turns a page of his magazine and takes a sip of his soda without even noticing him. 

"Oh, he _sure does_."

To Dwalin's right, Balin's snoring lightly, head drooping an inch too forward. Kili cocks his head to the side and arches an eyebrow, "That gentleman over there is Dwalin's big brother, Balin, who I'm pretty sure took better care of our mum and uncles than our grandfather ever did, and that's saying everything. He's got a wonderful collection of old cars, by the way, literally the prettiest I've ever seen."

"And guns."

"Yeah. Yeah,  _man_."

"Like... lots?"

Fili nods at Bilbo as he unwraps a stick of gum and pops it into his mouth, "A ridiculous amount.  _Collector_ , you see."

"Oh, oh. Right." Bilbo nods to himself and furrows his brow, eyeing Kili out of the corner of his eye as the dark-haired man scans his surroundings.

" _Okay_ ," Kili suddenly blurts out, "over there, there's Nori, who-"

" _Move_."

Three heads turn all at the same time towards the left: Ori's standing next to Fili, arms nervously crossed.

Fili grins at him.

" _Ori_ , my friend-"

"Don't you have  _assigned_  seats? Which aren't  _other people_ 's?"

"We  _absolutely_ _do_ , but you see, we were helping Bilbo here," Kili places an arm around Bilbo's shoulders. Bilbo tenses up and hopes with every inch of his body that he's not about to be dragged into the middle of an argument. Or, even worse,  _used as a weapon_  during one.

Ori rolls his eyes and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

"... _how_?"

"Well, we were taking advantage of the World's Longest Loo Break to-"

"I was walking around to avoid my legs  _cramping_."

"Yes.  _Anyway_ , we were explaining to good old mister Baggins here the prowess and wonders of Oakenshield's Thirteen."

" _Oakenshield's Thirteen_?"

" _Ignore him_." Fili sighs.

Ori stares at Kili (who grins at him) for a few seconds and hardly even blinks. He decides not to ask questions.

He fears the answers.

" _Riiiight_. I'd like to sit down?"

" _Yes you do_." Kili exclaims, and then neither of the brothers move. Ori furrows his brow, breathes sternly and tries not to punch them. Bilbo somehow starts wondering if opening the emergency exitways and flinging himself out of the aircraft would be deemed a socially acceptable means of escape.

"... _now_."

It takes the brothers another few seconds before they stand up, "Oh yeah,  _yeah_ , we'll move, right back atcha," and quickly shuffle out of the way, promising Bilbo to continue "this highly enlightening conversation" once safely on the ground.

Bilbo wishes they didn't have to.

Ori plops himself back into his seat and sighs loudly, pulling his book back up and clicking his tongue a few times.

"So you've met the  _Princesson_ brothers." he tuts after a little while, not looking up from the words he's reading.

"Prince...  _Princesson_?"

"Oh. Right," Ori rolls his eyes for the millionth time, "Princesson was their  _father_ 's name. They use Oakenshield now because it gets them into clubs faster."

Bilbo frowns and hesitates.

"How do you-"

"We go to  _university_  together. That is, when they decide to show up for classes. For the rest, _they_ grow dumber by the minute and _I_ do their homework." he adds, snapping his book shut and turning to face Bilbo.

"Are you familiar with the works of J. R. R. Tolkien?" Ori asks.

Bilbo can't help but shake his head.

* * *
    
    
      **PHNOM PHEN INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT**  
    
    **AUGUST EIGHTEENTH**

Bilbo grabs his bag and drags it off the conveyor belt and gives Ori (who has been talking, endlessly, for the remaining of the flight) a quick little nod, "Could you just. Ah. Excuse me for a moment?" and hurriedly makes his way as far from him as possible, not without a small pang of guilt.

Of course, he finds Fili and Kili waiting for him.

" _Bilbo_ ," the youngest joyously yelps out, once again placing his arm on Baggins' shoulders while the group makes its way out of the airport, "how are you, my friend?"

"I don't really think this is the right moment for-"

"As we were  _saying_ , that chap over there is Nori."

"Oh God."

Fili nudges towards one of the tallest of the group, thin and strong, with large dark eyes and a face that, at least according to Bilbo, looks very much like a banker's.

"Ori's older brother."

"Which makes us wonder how such a cool man like him is related to a  _Tolkien nerd_. You see, he's a  _bounty hunter_."

"A  _what_?"

"If he's doing something, it's  _probably_  illegal."

Bilbo decides Nori is definitely the furthest thing from a banker he's ever seen. Fili laughs out loud.

"Yeah. He's  _pretty fuckin' metal_."

"And this, by logic, brings us to Dori. Ori's older  _older_  brother."

"Innocuous, _for the most part_. Of course. As far as we've seen. Just like Oin and Gloin, who are something along the lines of distant cousins of ours twice. Or  _thrice_  removed. Something like that. Family values and such bullshit."

"Gloin had a rifle at my house."

"We're a  _feisty_ little family."

They're outside by now, and Bilbo's anxiously craning his neck in the hope of catching a glimpse of  _anyone_ , even Ori and his banter on the differences between Silvan and Sindar Elves, just to escape the two brothers' incessant, exhausting chatter (and Baggins' started to notice that neither of them can manage to say an entire phrase without the other chiming in, something he finds _vaguely_ irritating- to say the least) but nobody seems to notice, or want to offer help.

Bofur nods at them and does little else, making his way through the crowd of people and bicycles and animals.

"Bofur, on the other hand," Kili continues, grinning at said man, "has the best moustache I've ever laid eyes upon. Apart from that, he's a wonderful person with numerous interests, such as robbing, dicking around with the law and contract killing. Watch your head."

Bilbo's eyes widen as he ducks past a woman carrying a basket.

"Just like his cousin, may I add," Kili continues, "you know.  _Bifur_."

"The... the one with a. Uh. A  _bullet_  in his skull."

" _Precisely_ ," Fili adds, slipping his sunglasses on, "then comes Bofur's brother Bombur. Who runs a restaurant."

"A restaurant?"

"Yeah. He owns _Broadbeam's_ in London."

Bilbo stares at the two with a look of absolute shock and bewilderment. " _Broadbeam's_? But that's one of-"

"One of the priciest restaurants in London? We know."

"Mum took me there for my birthday," Kili chimes in.

Bilbo searches for words, frowns, and stares at the two, who've started laughing hysterically.

In the meantime, Thorin's lighting himself a cigarette, still talking to G. Balin's joined the conversation.

"We start first thing tomorrow. I got a tip-off about where he might be."

"Are you sure about it?" 

Thorin frowns at Balin and scoffs, "When am I ever sure about  _anything_? I'm trusting my instincts here. Let's hope they get us where we want to."

G says nothing but smirks to himself, probably, and shakes his head. Suddenly, Dwalin walks up to Thorin, and leans in to whisper:

"We're being followed."

Oakenshield gives the smallest of nods.

" _I know_."

* * *

Three different hotels, three different locations, one common, secret meeting point. 

Bilbo rolls around in his much too uncomfortable bedcovers and sighs between his teeth and, in between dreams and the outside world, he can hear someone ramming a fist against a wall in frustration, quick whispers, a door slamming, another opening, nervous footsteps.

The same voices, again, louder, an argument, and he recognizes the brothers. He decides to creep out of bed just to check, hopefully go by unnoticed.

There's a walkway, with doors to rooms on one side and a balcony that gives onto a yard on the other, and Bilbo can see Fili, and Kili, which look strikingly similar when they both have their hair tied back, and Thorin, shirtless and snarling something into the younger brother's face.

Bilbo hides behind the corner.

"I didn't  _mean anything_ , Thorin-"

" _Next time_ , you keep your mouth shut. You know-"

Kili shakes his head and nearly laughs.

"Oh my God. We're starting with  _this_ again? Yeah, I fuckin' know I know _shit_ about the world-"

" _Kili_."

"Shut the fuck up, Fili. I know I'm an ignorant little fuck, in your eyes, I  _know it_ , you've  _told me_. But don't expect me to hold the fucking key to whatever the fuck it is in me that you're looking for. I'm only  _twenty_."

"Good," Thorin snaps, "then don't _expect_ _me_ to treat you like an adult." 

Kili clenches his teeth and turns around, and a badly-muffled " _Fuck you_ ," leaves his lips, infantile and arrogant and proud. Fili's behind him, but he turns towards Thorin one last time and, from what little Bilbo can see, mouths and embarrassed " _I'm sorry_ ". They rush past Bilbo without even noticing him.

"It's okay." is Thorin's exhausted reply.

"You know, they've only recently started talking again."

Bilbo nearly yelps and jumps, startled. Balin's standing behind him, in what looks very much like flannel pajamas. 

"Who...? Thorin and his nephews?"

"Yes, yes. He... messed up a lot of things with them. Not that he  _wanted to_ , and not that he could have avoided it. But, there have been times in which he could've maybe done more."

"Kili seems to think that."

"Kili thinks the entire _Universe_  owes him for taking his father away from him when he was eight years old."

Suddenly, the " _was his father's name_ " said by Ori earlier makes a lot of more sense in Bilbo's head. "Oh. Oh God. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize to _me_." Balin chuckles, quietly, and just a little, and without an ounce of joy. Bilbo glances back at Thorin, who's leaning against the balcony's banister, and in the crappy, bluish neon lights, he suddenly realizes Oakenshield's back is a crisscross of scars and burn marks and hurt, an unsettling cacophony of old, dark, gripping pain- pain, nonetheless, covered with more darkness: the silhouette of a tree tattooed along a broken soldier's back, roots wrapping around his hips, branches creeping up to his neck, broad shoulders clenched tight by the quiet growth of treebark and new life and hope.

Marks of suspected shame and weakness covered with self-inflicted pain.

 _I am human. I am in control_.

(But the tree on his back is dead).

Bilbo blinks a few times and debates whether asking it or not, and then he turns towards Balin just as Dwalin peeks out of his room and makes his way to Thorin. And he doesn't touch him (he knows nightmares have a way of turning skin into acid), he just stands right beside him, almost as waiting for permission he knows will never come. Bilbo thinks he hears Oakenshield say, "I wish I hadn't fucked up so much," and Dwalin reply, "It's not your fault," and Baggins would bet Thorin doesn't believe him, and he'd bet that Dwalin's already said it countless of times before. 

But his mind urges him back to the question, "Is it true?" he dares himself to ask, and does, against his better judgement ( _It's none of your business, you idiot_ ).

"Is what true?" Balin furrows his brow.

" _Afghanistan_."

The older man sighs.

"Oh. Oh yes, yes it is. _Of course it is_."

"I mean what... exactly happened?"

"Well, we  _all_ know he was kidnapped. Rich family,  _powerful_ family, a tasty little bite. And that's about all the papers told you, isn't it?"

"Yeah, pretty much."

"What they didn't tell you is that he was  _betrayed_."

"...betrayed?"

" _Yes_." 

Thorin's voice is a low, spiteful growl. He glares at Balin and he glares at Bilbo as he walks up to them, "and it's  _none_ of the hacker's business."

Bilbo swallows, feeling suddenly nervous and rude and everything horrible in between, and he mutters an apology, lowering his eyes. Thorin doesn't say anything and there's something that looks dangerously like self-hate lingering right under his skin, a faint glow of sickness he isn't able to hide at such a late hour of night, but he knows he has to try anyway.

"Go back to _bed_ , Baggins. Tomorrow's going to be a long day."

It's the last thing he says before slamming his bedroom door shut behind him. Dwalin hasn't moved from the bannister, hasn't even turned around. His own tattoos glisten with sweat and with low-quality lightbulbs and as Bilbo starts to creep his way back to his room, feeling odd and guilty and unnerved, Balin turns around to say one last thing, before going to his brother: 

"The man who did it was called Azog. And he was one of Thorin's men."

"... _Jesus_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, I also accidentally deleted a comment because technology hates me.   
>  So if you notice that your comment is missing, it's not that I don't value your opinion.   
>  I'm just dumb.


	8. v


      **PARIS, FRANCE**  
     **1998**
    

"You're doing it wrong."

"Oh  _really_?"

" _Really_."

Bofur stops, sighs loudly and pulls back from between Dwalin's knees. He doesn't immediately look up at him, though, as he furrows his brow and angrily rips the electrode off of the other man's thigh, before pulling it up for him to see.

"This is an electrode."

" _Jesus_ , Sherlock. You're at it again."

Bofur narrows his eyes.

" _This is an electrode_  that-"

"Are all government agents this smart?"

"MacFundin, I am starting to regret not having to kill you."

Dwalin grins at him, tied to a chair and with his pants pulled down to his ankles.

"Seeing you try would be a  _wonderful_  experience."

Bofur breathes loudly through his nose and runs a hand through his hair, then sighs and stands up, sticking the electrode back onto Dwalin's leg. The room they're in is cold and damp, and there's a heavy metal door behind Bofur, walls that smell of mold and two chairs (one empty, one with Dwalin calmly sitting in it), a briefcase full of lighters and knives and other jolly things, and said Bofur, who cracks his neck.

"All right, let's do this."

"Glory  _Halleluja_."

"Jesus Christ," Bofur mutters, connecting the electrodes stuck to Dwalin's legs (and what's between them) to a small machine and pulling down the lever, " _they don't pay me enough_."

"That's for su-"

Dwalin's cut short almost immediately, and he shrieks out and his teeth grit as electricity hits him where it counts, and God does it  _hurt_. Bofur finally feels his day is actually going to be productive, if it weren't for the fact that right after screaming, Dwalin starts.

Well.

 _Laughing_.

Bofur stares at him and stops the current before burying his face in his hands and whining loudly, fingers dragging down his face.

"Torture victims usually aren't supposed to react that way."

"And  _government agents_ _aren't supposed to break the law_."

"This is a  _side job_." Bofur snaps, furrowing his brow, and Dwalin barely muffles his laugh. Before, of course, Bofur sends another shock skyrocketing through him, and the single, solitary, desolate lightbulb hanging above their heads flickers in and out of life for a few seconds. Once Bofur releases Dwalin, the other man slumps down against the chair, and, of course the pain is  _unimaginable_ , but the adrenaline and endorphines and anxiety make MacFundin burst out laughing again.

That, of course, and the priceless face Bofur makes as soon as Dwalin laughs.

"Mh, that's right baby,  _do it again_."

"I. Honestly.  _Despise you_."

"The feeling's mutual."

Dwalin grins and Bofur stares at him, debating whether frying him for good or throwing the machine directly  _at him_ , and, honestly, he can't decide which would bring him more satisfaction, mainly because he's pretty sure the bastard would probably laugh at him as he was being _set on fire_ , and Bofur really isn't in the mood for that today.

So he lights himself a cigarette, crosses his arms, and, after having thought for a while, rolls up his sleeves.

"So. It's, what is it?  _Bofur_ , right?"

"Ah-ah, new rule. Torture victims don't speak."

"Anyway, I was just wondering. Because seriously. Who  _paid_ you."

Bofur rolls his eyes.

"No, come on. I want to know who hates me so much to lock me up in a room with you."

"Your mother, that's-"

" _Me_ ," says a voice, and both men look behind Bofur's shoulders. 

Tall, thin but muscular, the newcomer stands in the doorway, door having creaked open without either of them noticing, and, obviously, cigarette smoke's trailing from his lips as he is nothing but a silhouette, for now, wrapped in a peacoat and wearing what's probably leather gloves. Bofur blinks a few times.

"...were you just standing there the whole time waiting for the  _right time to come in_?"

"Of course not," the other snaps, stepping into view, " _now_ -"

The roar of laughter starts from the bottom of Dwalin's clenching, aching stomach and explodes throughout the room. It lasts for five full minutes, hitting Bofur in the face with the force of a mallet and the annoyance level of a skunk in heat humping his leg, before MacFundin manages to quiet himself down, tears streaming down his cheeks, "All right. Okay. Sorry about that. But. Just.  _NORI_?"

And the laughter starts again, and Bofur turns towards Nori and angrily gestures at Dwalin.

Nori shrugs.

"This. Oh God, oh my God, I'm sorry about this. I really. Am. But okay. Hold. On.  _This is about Tallinn_ , isn't it?"

"As a matter of fact, ye-"

Dwalin has to take another three minutes to calm himself. Until he looks back up at Nori and, obviously, is in hysterics a millisecond after.

Bofur throws his arms up, grabs Nori and pulls him across the room and right outside.

" _I've been frying his balls for the last ten minutes, and he hasn't shut up. For one. Fucking. Second_."

"...I've noticed."

"You tell him, Nori!"

Bofur peeks into the room and squints at Dwalin: "If you don't shut your mouth I am going to stick an electrode probe up your  _arse_."

"You know what, I might even like it."

Bofur grumbles and glares back at Nori, "DO YOU  _SEE_  WHAT I MEAN?"

Nori arches an eyebrow and takes a drag from his cigarette, "I paid you to...  _fry his balls_. You're frying his balls."

" _Yes_. But these, are not, acceptable,  _working_ ,  _conditions_ ," Bofur hisses, and even his mustache trembles with exhasperation as he punctuates every word with droplets of spittle flying from his mouth, fists clenched.

"Couldn't you just  _gag_  him?"

Bofur angriedly throws his right hand up, which is shaking from rage: deep and red teethmarks bruise it.

"Believe me,  _I tried_."

"You know, I could always hire someone else and tell everyone that one of the Lady's best agents is a traitor."

Bofur's eye twitches.

This had started as a  _good_  day.

This had honestly, absolutely, completely,  _without any doubt_  started as a good day.

He'd had a crepe filled with cheese and ham for breakfast, and he'd walked around for a little bit since he'd never seen Paris before, and then he'd been told by an anonymous caller at a phone booth that his "package" was waiting for him at an address, and he'd grabbed his things and gone to the aforementioned address, and found Dwalin passed-out, in a basement, tied to a chair and with a trickle of blood mixed to drool coonecting the right corner of his mouth to the collar of his shirt.

But, right now, his day is definitely taking a turn for the  _exhasperating_.

"...or?"

" _Or_ -"

"Not to interrupt your little domestic- but I'm kind of starting to get hungry."

"Can't you chew on your tongue or something? That way you'll probably  _shut up_."

"How about you  _try_  and make me shut up, you Irish bastard?"

Bofur storms back into the room.

"Just let me check, I might have something in my bag to make it  _extra painful_."

"Oh, FINALLY. I was starting to get _bored_."

The other slams both hands on each side of the chair, and brings his face inches from Dwalin's. Who arches an eyebrow and smirks, while Nori flicks ash off his cigarette and barely moves, and part of him senses what's about to happen.

Bofur narrows his eyes.

Dwalin's forehead connects with Bofur's face with a sickening smack and crunch. Bofur stumbles back, realizes his nose is bleeding, and collapses. Nori sighs, exasperated, and looks up at the ceiling.

"Was that  _really_  necessary, MacFundin?"

"No. But hey, he would've never shut up otherwise."

Nori glares at him and throws what remains of his cigarette to the floor, crushing it with his heel. He wipes his mouth and stares at Dwalin and at a now unconscious Bofur.

"...You're waiting for me to untie you, aren't you?"

"God you're a  _smart_  boy."

"And what if I  _don't_?"

"Oh, you would  _never_. You love me too much."

"Is that thing still connected to your testicles?"

Dwalin purses his lips and bats his eyelashes, "You're nothing without me, Nori, and you  _know it_. Nothing at all. I am the sun to your moon, the light to your darkness, the-"

" _All right_ , all right. ALL RIGHT." Nori scoffs and starts pulling the electrodes off of Dwalin's legs.

"That's a good boy. You mind blowing me in the process?"

The other clenches his fists and grits his teeth, as he quickly starts to realize  _why_  exactly Bofur was on the brink of a breakdown earlier. 

"I'd actually forgotten how much of an insolent dick you are."

"Always a pleasure," is Dwalin's reply, as Nori unties his hands and ankles and he pulls his pants up. He stretches for a little bit, cracking his knuckles and his joints, fixing his coat. He growls in pain when he tries to take a step and nods towards Nori:

"Yeah. That's gonna show in the morning. Thanks."

"Always a pleasure."

Dwalin gingerly steps over Bofur. Nori's already standing in the doorway when Dwalin turns around to eye the unconscious man one last time.

"...d'you figure we should leave him there?"

Nori, as per usual, just shrugs. Dwalin stands there pensive for a few moments before shrugging, too, "Sure,  _whatever_ ," and leaning over Bofur. He nudges him with a foot: the other doesn't move.

MacFundin crouches down and frowns a little, before grabbing Bofur by the shoulders and shaking him violently, and Broadbeam comes through after a few seconds, coughing loudly and spluttering. It's when he manages to focus his eyes on something (in this case, MacFundin) that he whines loudly.

" _Rise and shine_."

"No."

"Yes," Dwalin hisses as he pulls him up and pain shoots up from the lower part of his belly.

"Go away."

"Never."

"I think my nose is broken."

"Worse things have happened. For example, I am positively sure my balls got seared today."

"I don't even  _like you_."

"And I'm offering you something to drink," is Dwalin's brisk reply, as he loops an arm around Bofur's waist and helps him to his feet, before signaling to Nori to come over and help  _him_  walk. Nori obliges. "What's not to love?"

" _Everything_."

The trio starts limping its way out of the room.

"I gotta get my stuff."

"We'll get it later."

" _MacFundin_ -"

"No, my friend, it is time that you bask in the beauty of France. Good bread, good wine, good women."

"I don't think I want this."

"Oh, you'll love it. Won't he, Nori?"

"Uh--"

"Don't answer."

"..."

" _Please_."

* * *
    
    
      **UNKNOWN LOCATION**  
     **PRESENT DAY**
    

[  **error detected**  ]

R looks up from the plant he's been tending and frowns, just a little.

His computer bleeps again.

He furrows his brow and wipes off the dirt in his hands with his hair and moves closer.

"You all right there, Sebastian?"

The computer, being a computer, doesn't answer. It just bleeps again, the unnerving sound coming from its old and trusy Windows 97 screen.

[  **initiating memory swipe**  ]

R freezes, for a moment, before hissing "No!" and lunging forward, hands hysterically tapping away at the keyboard as his burned out, rambling mind starts putting together codes and programming and assembling information gathered over the past weeks into something remotely resembling a coherent thought.

Which is  _hard enough_.

But it makes sense, doesn't it? The missing programming pieces, and the missing data and the  _information that just seemed to fall through all the time_ , nets of users and hackers blocked off completely. Nets of  _agents_ , even, but nobody knows he knows- R has been out of the  _official_ system long enough.

And he can thank his  _eccentricities_  for that.

But, right now, his eccentricities are all he has. And so he furiously types away, as something dark and scary and simply  _wrong_  trickles deep within his little machine's systems: Sebastian whines loudly and bleeps a few more times, and as R desperately fights against whatever's burning through it, he hopes to manage to salvage what little he can.

But nothing seems to work.

Nothing seems to help.

The Windows desktop computer starts spluttering some more, as its primitive circuits start to fry due to an overload of both virus and cure, and R clenches his teeth as he feeds code after code after code to it- to no avail.

And then it happens.

[  **system failure**  ]

Sebastian the computer suddenly blinks and coughs one last time.

"NO! Oh, no! No no no no no!"

R quickly dives through the piles of papers cluttering his small, dark living room, digging through old books and old lists and old CDs (and old plants, old boxes of cat food, old birdseed), until he stumbles upon a  _very_  dusty, bright blue floppy disk.

He forces it into the dying machine and slams his fingers against the keyboard. Lines of codes so incomprehensible and confusing and difficult and  _complicated_  that few know how to maneuver their way through them start running on an otherwise pitch black screen.

R swallows, furrows his brow, and starts typing.

* * *
    
    
      **LONDON, NEW SCOTLAND YARD**  
     **TWO PM**  
     **AUGUST NINETEENTH**  
     **2013**
    

She stops in front of the shut door and breathes through her nose, counts to three.

 _I can do this_ , she thinks.

 _I can do this_.

One. Two. One, two,  _three_.

Tauriel very tentatively knocks on Thranduil's office door.

"Come in."

She realizes she's started breathing again as she opens it. Greenleaf's sitting at his desk, hurriedly pushing something under it that sounds very much (and very worryingly) like a bottle and glass being hastily hidden.

Tauriel stares at him.

"Are you-"

"Ah, Tauriel."

"...are you  _drinking_?"

"Of course not."

She sighs and grits her teeth, deciding to ignore his blatant lie.

Because what she's about to do isn't going to be fun. Isn't going to be easy. And, sure as Hell, it isn't going to be  _enjoyable_.

"You wanted to talk to me?" Thranduil says without looking her in the eye as he fans through some papers, a pencil rolling around in his fingers. 

"Yes, as a matter of fact. Yes."

"... _and_?"

"You know. You know Oakenshield?"

Icy blue eyes meet her worried green ones.

"What about, Oakenshield, Tauriel?"

"You know how you, ah. You told Lindir to keep an eye on him?"

Thranduil stands up, pencil starting to beat against the desk nervously. Tauriel eyes it and swallows. She wipes her palms on her shirt.

"Yes, so that he wouldn't run off and fuck things up."

"Well, he. Uhm. He left for Cambodia two days ago."

The pencil suddenly snaps and Tauriel's eyes widen as Thranduil clutches a split half in each hand. He licks his lips, smirks and shuts his eyes for a moment.

"He...  _what_?"

"He. Left."

The pencil halves drop, he starts cracking his knuckles as his hands start shaking very, very slightly.

"You leave my office. Right now."

"Sir-"

He points a finger at her.

"You leave my office right, the fuck,  _now_ , and you don't come back until you have Oakenshield  _dragged into here on his knees_. Are we clear?"

She sighs and looks at the floor.

"I  _said_ , are. We. Fucking.  _Clear_?"

Tauriel flinches: and it's not the things he says that unnerve her so much, it's the  _tone_. The cold, calculated, distant tone of his voice. Flat.

Panicked.

Bloodthirsty.

"Now get out until you learn how to do your  _job_. And get  _Lindir_  in here as soon as possible."

"He only-"

" _GET OUT_."

She stares at him, clenches her jaw and then slams the door behind her. After she's gone, Thranduil stares at the floor intently for what feels like an eternity.

"Fuck," he whispers very, very quietly.

"Fuck. Fuck.  _Fuck_."

Which is exactly when his phone vibrates on his desk and he flinches seeing the name on the display. But knows he has to answer anyway.

"...Greenleaf. Speaking."

"One would think that a _king_  would have better control over his _k_ _ingdom_ , Officer."

"It's not safe to call me here."

"I have my secured lines, Greenleaf. Don't _think_ for a second that I am not organised."

"No, of course not. My apologies, sir."


	9. vi


      **THORIN'S HOME**  
    
    **THREE PM**  
    
    **A MONTH AND A HALF EARLIER**
    

Dis sighs and rolls her sleeves up, crossing her legs under her body and sitting, perched on a stool, while fanning through piles of paper. She brushes hair out of her face and glances up at her brother. Thorin's humming to himself, and the bruises and cuts on his face from the fire have almost nearly all faded. Drumming a finger against the table, he furrows his brow as he pulls up a photograph, and then he smiles: a mix of sadness and affection.

"She looks so young here."

He flips it around to show Dis, who gives him one of her sideways smirks- she remembers little about her: after all, she was only seven. The woman in the photo (who strikingly looks like her) smiles back at her daughter, and there's no sign of crippling, murdering illness on her- not yet, at least. 

"God. She was pretty."

"Looked just like you."

"Oh, shut up."

Thorin giggles and she scoffs, smiling, at him.

"I'm  _serious_ , Dis."

"No  _you're not._ "

"Yes I  _am._ "

Dis frowns at him, playful, and Thorin puts the picture away back with what little else he was able to save from the wreckage, and stands up to stretch, back popping. Dis follows his movements with the corner of her eye, before standing up herself. She's smaller than her brother, but they look nearly the same: same large hands, thin wrists, same bright blue eyes and same dark hair. Same smile, even, broken and sincere at the same time: they've been mistaken for twins over and over again, and both of them laugh whenever this happens.

They're  _almost_  twins, although they were born four years apart: there'd be no Thorin without Dis, and there'd be no Dis without Thorin.

One would kill for the other.

(One nearly has.)

"How about we take a break. And I'll make coffee."

"Dis, there's no need-"

"It's fine," she chirps, making her way to the counter. She opens a cupboard and pulls out two mugs, and then her eye falls on the bottles of pills sitting on a shelf next to the stove. And she picks one up, and furrows her brow.

"Thorin, these are empty."

"What are empty?" he asks, leaning against a windowsill to avoid filling the house with cigarette smoke. He knows  _exactly_ what she's talking about.

"Your pills." his sister says, walking back into the dining room and holding a small orange bottle in her hand. "How long has it been since you've had a refill?"

Thorin stubs out the cigarette and furrows his brow, "About a... week, give or take? Maybe two."

" _Maybe two_?"

"Yeah."

"Jesus Christ you need to take these  _every day_."

"I-"

"Does doctor Ross know?"

"I've stopped seeing him."

Dis blinks and stares at Thorin.

"You've  _what_?"

"I've stopped-"

" _ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND_? Actually, no, scrap that. You  _are_. That's why you see a  _therapist_."

"It's  _complicated_."

"Thorin--"

"Dis."

" _Thorin_ \--" 

"Come on."

" _Thorin, you have BPD_."

"Dis,  _please_."

"I ask  _one thing_  of you. One, single,  _Goddamn thing_ \- to take care of yourself. To be  _healthy enough_  to be  _happy_. For me, for Dwalin and Balin, for  _Kili and Fili_ , now that all three of you are actually mature enough to start talking again- I mean what in your Goddamn right  _mind_  has  _possessed you_  to stop seeing the one person  _who keeps you in check_? Is this some kind of, of of of of of  _I'm Thorin Charles Oakenshield and I can save myself_  bullshit stunt?"

"Jesus it's not about  _that_ , Dis.  _It has nothing to do with it_."

"Then  _what is it_?"

His sister glares at him straight in the face. Thorin looks away, swallows and foucses on the bookshelf right next to them. A decades old copy of the Bible stares back at the dirty, old sinner: he'd appreciate the comedic and ironic effort put up by the book if, right now, he didn't want to throw himself out of the window and land on the driveway a few feet down.

Hardly fatal, but still very painful.

But he's cornered, back against the wall.

" _Look at me_."

He obeys.

"This is about the fire, isn't it?"

Thorin immediately lowers his eyes.

"I said  _look at me_."

Blue meets blue. He swallows and hopes it's enough of an answer. Dis buries her face in her hands and groans.

"Oh my God it  _is_?" She sighs and runs her hands through her hair. "Thorin, it was a  _gas leak_."

"You weren't there."

"Just tell me how this has to do with you stopping taking your meds."

Thorin sighs, and decides whether to lie to her or not. He's torn, for a moment: lying to his sister is always difficult ( _you've been doing it for the last thirty years_ ), not lying could end in disaster. Lying could maybe make her worry, not lying could make her worry even more.

But he can't lie to Dis. Not about something as big as this. As important. 

( _as stupid_ )

"There's a... thing, I'm planning. And you  _know_  how the meds work, how they fuck with me, Dis. They slow me down, they make me-" but as Dis stares at him, wide-eyed, before taking a deep, deep breath and pressing the tip of her fingers to her temples, his voice dies down. He's puzzled.

"...What are you doing?"

"Preparing myself for whatever insane bullshit's about to leave your mouth."

" _Dis_."

"There's a thing you're planning and it's  _what_ , exactly?"

"I just need to find who did this."

"Excuse me?"

"I just need to. To find them. To get back what they stole."

Breathe. Sigh. Swallow: Dis clenches her jaw. " _No one did this_."

"His name's Smaug."

"The police said it was just a gas leak."

"And you trust  _Greenleaf_?"

"I don't  _care_  who he  _is_ ,  _Thorin_ , there's a  _difference_  between murder and your  _paranoid delusions_ , and you can't just  _run off_ -"

"You don't understand. You weren't  _there_ _, Dis_. You didn't see what I saw and you didn't hear what I heard and-"

"YOU HAVE A COMPANY TO RUN.  _OUR FATHER'S COMPANY_. You have  _me_ , you have your  _nephews_ , you. Have. Responsibilities. And running off isn't one of them, hunting down some person you don't even know exists isn't one of them,  _stopping taking your medication isn't one of them and it's disrespectful and it isn't_ right,  _for my sake, FOR MY SAKE WHICH YOU NEVER SEEM TO_ -"

And then,  _suddenly_ \- but it's imaginable, it's known, it's somehow the way she expects him to react: he's in her face, mere inches from her.

"He  _killed_  Thrain and Thror! He took A.R.K.E.N.S.T.O.N.E! He  _burned our house down,_ Dis! Where YOU grew up and where Frerin grew up and where I took care of you and where Mother  _died_  and-" but he stops himself before he can finish, because her eyes, big, and blue and scared are staring at him and they suddenly look completely and utterly  _defenseless_ for a moment and he stops in his tracks, voice dying down as he realizes he's yelling at his sister- no, not even  _yelling_. He's  _snarling_ , vicious and cruel and mad.

"Don't do this," she whispers.

"Why do you  _care_  so much?"

"BECAUSE I'M  _SCARED_ _, THORIN_. I AM BLOODY  _TERRIFIED_."

"Of what, for Chrissake?"

"THAT YOU'LL TRY AGAIN. THAT YOU'LL TRY AGAIN AND THAT THIS TIME IT'LL  _WORK_. THAT I'LL LOSE YOU. For  _good_."

Her scream dies down and Thorin takes a step back. For a second, he has no idea what to do.

"I'm sorry," he mutters, and she shrugs: it's Dis' turn to look away. They're quiet for a few seconds that last long, long long, long enough for Thorin to feel himself suddenly slip under the surface, and sadness (a dark, thick, sticky sadness) starts to fill his lungs. He brushes it away. 

Dis sighs without making eye contact, "Does Dwalin know?"

"Of course."

She smirks to herself, bitter, and looks back at her brother, " _Do my boys know_?"

Thorin simply says, "They asked to come along." and realizes a moment too late how stupid he's being. Dis freezes, breathes deep.

"And. You...?" 

Her voice hardly masks her rage.

"I said yes."

Her smack falls, precise and cold and stinging, across his cheek, and a strand of hair escapes her messy bun, falls across her face. Thorin shuts his eyes, and swallows, and tastes blood in his mouth where he's just bit his tongue.

"You're a self-centered, egotistical piece of  _shit_ ," Dis mutters, and maybe she even means it. Maybe just a little.

Thorin rubs his cheek where it stings the most and knows she's crossing her arms and clutching her elbows before nibbling on her right pinkie nail and she's thinking, probably, and that's how well he can read her, how easily they know each other's rhythms and aches. She then brushes the wild strand of hair out of her face and nudges at Thorin.

"Come on. Show me your arms."

Thorin's eyes widen: her brother scoffs and takes a step back.

"Thorin, come on."

"This is getting ridiculous."

" _You're_  the one who started it. Come on, I want to be sure."

He swallows and shakes his head with a mix of defeat and frustration and presents her his arms, palms facing upwards, "You would've noticed earlier, Dis, if there'd been anything."

"Not if I wasn't looking."

"Christ, I feel like-"

"Like who, like  _Frerin_?" is her hiss as her head shoots back up and brother and sister make eye contact (only that this time it isn't needle holes it's scars and cuts and bruises).

"Something like that."

"Well, since  _neither of you_  could take care of yourselves..."

She doesn't finish the phrase (she doesn't have to) and turns his right arm over, inspects his fingers, hand and arm for bite marks or burn marks or anything else, for a second runs her fingertips along the back of his hand. She squeezes it, no longer mad but simply scared, simply sad, simply loving. Thorin doesn't say anything, but Dis can sense the tension growing right under his skin.

She does the same inspection on his left arm, and then flips them around once more, Thorin's palms now facing upwards again, careful fingers running along seemingly, and luckily, untorn and unbroken skin.

Save for two scars.

Both running from wrist to halfway down his forearm on either arm, angry and deep and thick, jagged where hands were shaking too hard to cut smoothly, they split his flesh in two: there's no tattoos covering these, despite the ones covering those on his back. They're just there, raw and pained, for everyone to see: a manifesto of Thorin's own suffering, a self-inflicted mark of what he calls weakness and what others simply call pain.

"There's no way I'm going to stop you from running off, am I?"

Dis brushes her fingertips against the cuts, tenderly, but Thorin pulls his arms out of her grasp soon enough. 

"It's okay, it's okay," is Dis' automatic reply, and she gives his hand another little squeeze, but Thorin moves away from the bookcase, leans agains the table cluttered with insurance papers and funeral home expenses and old photo albums and charred memories.

He sighs.

"I need to do this."

"You don't, and you know it. But there's no way I can avoid it. And there's no way I can help you from dragging Fee and Kee into it, either."

This time she's not asking for an answer. She knows already: her sons and their uncle might've not talked to each other for the last three years, but her boys are still aged eight and thirteen at heart, trailing behind the Wonderful and Brave and Amazing Uncle Thorin like puppies following their master, drinking in every word he says, admiring  him to the point where they can't tell whether they adore him or simply fear him.

(Although broken noses have a way of subtly cracking bonds, even the deepest ones).

So Dis nods.

"If one of you gets hurt, I'm going to make you regret the day you were born, Thorin," she mutters, quiet and terrifying.

"What if I'm the one who dies?"

"Then I'm coming to Hell and I'm dragging you out and you're going to  _wish_ you were still dead."

There's silent for a few seconds and stare at eachother. But then Thorin giggles despite himself and Dis' lips quiver upwards, too, and it's her turn to say: "I'm _serious_."

They both know she is, but a laugh is what they need right now. A manic, hysterical laugh, but a laugh nonetheless, something they can both cling to, and before they know it Thorin's laughing against his knuckles and Dis' joining him.

It's when the rattling in his chest subsides that Thorin says it:

"I'd be lost without you. You know this, right?"

Dis looks away and shrugs and her smile is wide, and it's sweet, and it's always a little desperate, a little worried.

"Don't say that. You were the one always there for me. For us."

"And you and Kee and Fee were the one thing that kept me chained to this world after Afghanistan."

Before they know it, she's taken three steps forward and she's burying her face against his chest, burying herself in his arms and she hopes he doesn't see the tears. Thorin squeezes her tight, and cradles her, maybe even a little surprised at this sudden physical contact, but he doesn't mind it that much anymore.

Dis swallows back the knot in her throat, the fear in her voice.

"If you don't come back, I am going to  _destroy_ you."

"Dis-"

"And if this Smaug asshole  _does_ exist? And he's torn everything to shreds like you say?"

"Mh?"

"Kill the bastard. For my sake."

Thorin smirks and kisses the top of her head. His tiny little strong, strong sister smiles against the cloth of his shirt.

There's no Dis without Thorin.

There's no Thorin without Dis.

(But they are always two thirds of a whole and try as they might, the ghost is still there: and there is so much one can do to try and exorcise a brother's ghost- Frerin still lingers, still breathes on their necks).


	10. vii

"Rise and shine, mister Baggins!"

Bilbo rolls around in bed, and stares at the bedside table It takes him a few seconds to remind himself where he is: Cambodia, Phnom Penh, in the company of thirteen extremely dysfunctional madmen and one extremely smug-looking elder citizen.

Exactly  _why_ he got dragged into this, he still doesn't know, and exactly  _how_ , well: he's still working on it.

But there's really no going back, as two sets of arms will confirm: they rip the sheets off of him, and then someone opens the curtains. Bilbo groans some more as sunlight floods in.

"Thorin wants to talk to you," someone says: it's Kili, to be more precise, who places a booted foot next to Baggins' pillow and leans on his knee, hovering over him. Bilbo glares up at him and is greeted by a large, unbearably optimistic, idiotic grin. He drags himself out of bed, mumbling in the process.

Fili throws a shirt and a pair of pants at him, and there's something entirely  _different_  about him: the tired, tense older brother dragging a fuming Kili away from Thorin from the night before is  _universes_ away from the grinning, wound-up blond standing in front of Bilbo with a yet unlit Marlboro dangling from his lips. As Bilbo hurriedly struggles to slip into his jeans, he opens the door and leans against the jamb, arms crossed. He looks like an old fashion movie star.

Or at least attempts to.

Bilbo blinks for a few seconds, as his groggy, tired, jet-lagged brain starts registering his surroundings and what's going on. And what is, quintessentially, two grinning assholes standing in the middle of his room. A room he was, up to five seconds ago,  _technically_  sleeping in.

A room he suddenly remembers,  _clear as day_ , to have locked.

"How. How did you two get in?" he asks, squinting as he forces himself into a checkered shirt.

"Picked the lock," Fili curtly answers, almost matter-of-factly, "Dwalin taught us," Kili adds. Bilbo stares at him and wonders for the millionth time in the space of two days why on Earth he's decided to follow a group of terrifying strangers all the way to the other side of the world, before just shrugging to himself.

"Why does your uncle want to talk to me?" he asks instead.

"Beats me," is Kili's reply as he shrugs back at Bilbo and pushes his way past his brother, waiting for the hacker to finish putting his shoes on by leaning his back against the wall opposite, "but he's waiting. C'mon."

Thorin's wearing a white shirt, sleeves rolled up due to the heat, but, the moment Bilbo knocks on the already open door of his room, they're quickly pulled down. Baggins doesn't catch a glimpse of what they're hiding, but the gesture itself certainly doesn't make him feel  _welcome_. It's not that he's curious about it (although he is just a little), he just wishes Thorin's movements were less brisk, less paranoid, less cautionary. Bilbo's pretty sure he's done nothing wrong apart from asking a few far too intrusive questions.

G's sitting in a corner of the small, excruciatingly hot room, near the window. Dwalin's standing next to him. Balin's nowhere to be seen, and Bilbo suspects it's because the sixty-something man's still sleeping.

Even Thorin looks tired, but his ferocious, violent eyes are nearly still, murky grey-blue cold and unforgiving. 

Bilbo is not wanted and yet he's needed. There's a laptop sitting on the small table across from the bed and an empty chair in front of it.

"Good. Good morning?" Bilbo tentatively asks.

"Morning, Baggins."

Oakenshield briskly gestures at Bilbo to step in. He does, followed by Kili and Fili. Fili's put the cigarette away in the meantime and wiped sweaty matted hair out of his eyes, held it back with an extremely unflattering black sweatband. Kili simply doesn't give a fuck, and keeps a few inches behind his brother. 

Bilbo swallows. 

"Did you, uh. Sleep well?"

Thorin stares at him blankly before clearing his throat. If he'd looked at him, Baggins would've seen Dwalin smirk to himself, a small bitter smile throbbing with unsaid things and secrets no one else knows, but he didn't. What Bilbo's staring at, in fact, isn't even  _Thorin_ 's face: it's the fancy laptop and the black USB key sitting next to it.

Thorin picks up the key and shows it to Bilbo, "You're a hacker, right?"

Bilbo glances desperately at G (who simply smiles at him with what Bilbo's sure is supposed to be a  _reassuring_  smile) before answering: "Some. Uh.  _Sometimes_."

"Can you break into this?"

* * *
    
    
      **UNKNOWN LOCATION  
    
    **
    

Teeth clenched, his fingers flying away, hitting the old white dirty plastic keyboard mercilessly, R realizes his brow's furrowed up to the point where his forehead aches.

Sebastian is dwindling deeper and deeper out of his grasp, and he knows he can't let that happen. There's things inside that trusty old desktop: data and secret codes and files he knows he isn't supposed to have access to but still does and information that cannot possibly fall into the wrong hands and God knows what else, and as the computer bleeps some more he furrows his brow and things have become so wrong so fast that when the beeping becomes more intense he doesn't even notice, he just types faster, thinks quicker.

And he's not letting Sebastian go. He's not letting a lifetime's work go, but the metallic screeching of a failing machine and operating system fills the small room to the brim relentlessly.

Until R's hands abruptly stop and so do the endless white lines of coding on the screen in front of him. And he hits ENTER one final time.

It's now or never.

* * *

Bilbo swallows and stares at Thorin, rooted to the spot.

" _Well_?" the other harshly asks, "it's what we're  _paying_ you for."

" _Jesus_ , Thorin," Bilbo can faintly hear Kili mutter, and Fili glares at his brother: the blond's jaw is set but Kee simply glares back, hunching his shoulders.

Baggins wipes sweaty palms against his jeans. "Could I. See it?" he nudges towards the key, and doing so gives him a few seconds during which he can calm down his panicked brain. Thorin hands it to him and crosses his arms, blue eyes narrowing expectantly.

Bilbo rolls the small plastic object around in his palm, and sees no other option but sit down and try to crack it wide open. He sighs loudly, loud enough for those around him to hear, sits down at the table, opens the laptop and jams in the key.

Five pairs of eyes stare at him expectantly.

* * *

R bites his lip and tastes the blood, as he digs his fingernails into his hands. The codes are up and running: there's no way to stop them, there's no way to cancel or predict what they're going to do.

All he can do is wait, eyes shut, teeth gritting and nails digging deeper, leaving small crescent moons on old calloused hands, as R presses his lips to his fingers and rocks back and forth for five seconds that last exactly five months in his worried mind, and his breath is shallow. The senses of an expertly trained assassin now an old, quirky and grumpy man (the kind of neighbor you wouldn't want your kids to talk to, ever, and it's the dirty clothes and the wild eyes and the fact that he raises rabbits but at least his flowers are pretty) spring to action the moment he hears the chime: and it's the unmistakable sound of a Windows computer starting up.

Sebastian is back.

* * *

Bilbo's brow is, unsurprisingly, furrowed. He leans against his elbows and stares at the screen. Fili and Kili have moved to the bed, both of them sitting on either side of it. Thorin's leaning against the wall on his oldest nephew's side and Dwalin's shifted his position so that he's behind Bilbo, eyeing the screen curiously.

G's just come back from a "loo break" smelling vaguely of tobacco and something else.

Bilbo doesn't know what to do. He is, honest to God, completely at loss.

The key is literally uncrackable. This is MI5, Government-only, Super Top Secret, Access Denied Under Any Circumstance Ever, National Security, Only The Prime Minister Can Probably Look At This (Anyone Else Will Be Instantly Killed)-level secrecy. And Bilbo has a feeling Thorin knows this. It's a small feeling, nothing more than instinct. But it's nagging at his brain.

Bilbo has a feeling Thorin is  _testing_  him.

Add it to the fact that everyone's bloody  _staring_  at him, and he isn't exactly the calmest person in the world. He cracks his neck and breathes loudly through his nose, exhaling through his mouth: it's a breath that quickly becomes a sigh. 

Thorin runs his hand against the back of his own head, massaging what little tension he can out of it, short cropped hair wet with sweat. He glares at Bilbo who doesn't notice, then at G who simply ignores him. Kili stands up and stretches, before declaring he's bored and stepping outside for a cigarette, whilst his brother simply rolls his eyes at him.

Bilbo leans against one arm, types away at the keyboard and knows exactly it won't have any effect, but he does it anyway. Thorin, very slowly, walks away from the wall and circles around him to peer over his shoulder, and it's the thing that makes him snap.

"I can't do this." Bilbo mumbles, feeling very, very embarrassed. "I'm sorry."

Thorin scoffs and roughly unplugs the key before Bilbo can even react, looks at G and growls out, "This is what I'm  _paying_ him to do, and he can't do it. You said he was the best."

"Oh Jesus you  _know_ how paranoid Thrain was."

It's Dwalin, surprisingly: the Scotsman's suddenly stood up, and Thorin turns around to look at him.

"My father has _nothing_ to do with this," he hisses.

"He does!" MacFundin spats back, and Thorin violently clenches his jaw, blinks back the frustration before looking up at Fili who simply throws up his hands and shakes his head at him,  _you're in this alone, you're in this mess alone_. Bilbo licks his lips and Thorin's eyes fall onto him, then, and Baggins is sure he sees a trace of  _emptiness_ before they once more turn to ice: scorned, disappointed ice. 

And then, Thorin simply turns around, trudges past Dwalin, and goes outside.

"Oh, oh Christ. Oh,  _come. On_." is Fili's annoyed yet worried mumble as he hops off the bed and runs after his uncle without much of a word to anyone else in the room. Bilbo glances up at G who simply sighs and shakes his head, but it's Dwalin who says it: "I'm sorry, Baggins."

"It's okay." He feels stunned more than anything. Thorin has a sort of swirling darkness behind hurt eyes that makes him scary, sometimes, and pitiful most.

* * *

R waits until he's sure the harddrive's wiped of any viruses before starting to track whatever it is that's just nearly smashed a life's work to bits. Rhosgobel might be an old program, and occasionally a faulty one, but it's a program he himself designed.

And it's a  _good_ tracking program. 

It runs for a few minutes, and R decides to fiddle with one of his bunnies in the meantime, letting the small lagomorph clamber its way up his shoulder and nibble on a messy greasy lock as the algorithm chugs its way through codes. He knows he should cut his hair but he hardly leaves the house anymore: groceries are something he has delivered, friends are something he hasn't had in many years. He knows enough about veterinary medicine to cure his critters on his own, and he knows enough about human medicine to be able to cure  _himself_ on his own- except for his heart. His heart's been giving him problems, as of late.

Once Rhosgobel is done, R leans closer to read the results better. And what he finds makes his eyes widen and his mouth go suddenly dry, and names he hadn't read in fifteen years pop up on the screen in front of him.
    
    
    SPIDER. NeCRO. Morgoth.

And he knows all data he can find is  _important_ data, right now he realizes this and _oh god oh god please don't be true please let this be a mistake_ , and so he trades the blue floppy disk for a standart black one, and hopes G will find a way to open it.

The only problem is, he hasn't seen G in thirty years. 

He hopes, wherever he is, that he won't mind an old friend's visit.

* * *

 

"THORIN," Fili calls out after his uncle, who keeps on walking.

"Jesusfuckingchrist,  _uncle_ , Thorin. COME ON."

Oakenshield stops and turns around and Fee runs up to him, skits to a halt. Blond hair falls in front of his face despite the sweatband- he should cut it, some day. But Rebecca likes it long, she likes to run her fingers through it.

"Hey, Fee. Listen, I-"

"Yeah. No. That's totally no way to behave."

Thorin sighs and lowers his eyes.

"Mum told me, by the way." Fili hushedly whispers, and he knows his eyes look worried, too worried, despite himself.

"Told you what?"

"The meds."

"Oh, Jesus."

"Yeeeah. Listen, I'm not gonna judge, but-"

"Does Kee know?"

"No, and neither does Dwalin unless you told him."

"I didn't."

Fili scoffs with a tiny smile, "Why does this not surprise me?"

Thorin smiles back at him. "Because he'd kill me if he knew."

"He would. But yeah. Be... careful, I guess. I'm not gonna ask you why or yell at you because Mum already did all that but just, be careful." 

He nods a little as he says that.

"I will."

"No, I'm serious. Because we all know what happened last time you. Went crazy."

And Fili swallows and slightly nudges at Thorin's arms and Thorin clutches his sleeves and squeezes his own wrist, USB key still safe in his hand.

"Fee, don't worry."

"No, no. I worry. We both do."

Thorin's eyes trip for a moment into what looks very much like surprise, before Fili shrugs and saves them both from the implication of what he's just said. Kili is a forbidden argument, when talking with Thorin. You don't talk about bloody noses. You don't talk about  _you touch him one more time, thorin, and i'm snapping your sorry-ass neck_. You don't talk about that.

You just don't.

"So yeah. Don't go crazy, Mum'll kill me if you do."

Nephew smiles at uncle again and Oakenshield grins back, attempting to be reassuring, "I promise I won't," and then the blond nods at him one last time and turns around. He sees Bilbo leaning against the bannister, shoulders to them, and walks up to him.

"Hey," Baggins says. 

"I'm sorry. He's. Like that." Fili mumbles.

Bilbo smiles and shrugs as he lights himself a cigarette. "Can I, uh, ask you something, Fili? If I can. And you can obviously not answer. Of course. If you don't want to." he then awkwardly blurts out, as he offers one to the blond, who whips the one from earlier from behind his ear instead. However, Fili does gladly accept Bilbo's lighter.

"Shoot."

"Your uncle isn't a happy man, is he?"

Fili's laughter is all shades of regretful, and one shade of bitter. "No, no, God no."

("He's a paranoid fucked up closeted fag with post-traumatic stress disorder and enough guilt to fill a warehouse," he wishes he could say, "he's violent and unpredictable and borderline and very,  _very_ sad, his life is oh so very terribly tragic, and he doesn't give a flying fuck if he drags us into it too." But then his mind snaps back: "Jesus, you sound like Kili," and he realizes it's true).

So he simply adds, "He's had his share of sorrows."

"And have you?"

"Mister Baggins, you're  _far_ more philosophical than you seem." He slips into sarcasm (natural defense) with scary ease, and the mask is back up. Fili arches an eyebrow, breathes in smoke and then just says, to end a conversation that slipping into sticky grounds:

"Let's just say sanity isn't the Oakenshield family's forte."


	11. viii

The curtains suddenly burst open.

And that's when Thranduil's head snaps up, and he realizes he's been curled up on the bed and he realizes he hasn't moved in a day. And he realizes his breath tastes of alcohol and of his own spit but luckily not of his vomit, and yet his eyes still throb and he still feels completely and utterly empty.

A wet nose nudges his hand and there's a small whine, and footsteps, too. He rolls around and his soul feels on fire. The nuzzling against his hand continues and then a huge dog- a Great Dane, to be more precise, gold and black- hops onto the bed and gives Thranduil's face a slimy, slobbering lick.

He grimaces, "Elk, no, c'mon," words slurred and difficult to even feel. Whoever's opened the curtains still hasn't spoken yet, and so Greenleaf pushes himself up and blinks a few times, shoving Elk the Dog aside. He furrows his brow as light flooding in attacks his migraine.

"You do realize that this is the third day in a row you haven't showed up for work?"

"...El- Elrond?"

Elrond Peredhel, the terror-inducing, dark-haired, blue-eyed, divorced-father-of-three, and, most importantly, head of Scotland Yard rarely leaves his picture-perfect, wiped-down, thoroughly sanitized office. And when he does, it's usually in the case of extremely important matters.

In this case, it's dragging his best friend out of the gutter.

"Where's Legolas?" the dark-haired man asks, before opening another curtain. His voice is low and cold: he's furious- this, despite his brain being immersed in fog, Thranduil is awake enough to tell.

"His. His mother's." he manages to blurt out. His brain hurts. His mind hurts. The light's too much.

 _At least he's safe from this mess_ , Elrond thinks, and grits his teeth.

"Could you... please shut the blinds?"

"No."

" _Elrond_."

"No, I've been covering for your sorry ass for the past three days. Get out of bed."

Thranduil lets himself fall back and buries his face in a pillow. He wants the world to stop rushing around him, for once. And he wants the vomit to stop clenching and clawing at his esophagus.

"Okay, get the fuck up," he hisses, and grabs Thranduil by the shirt before pulling him halfway out of the bed: but Thranduil's a dead weight. Greenleaf limply lets himself fall over the side, forehead pressing against the floor, shirt bunched up to his chest. Elrond sighs and takes a step back.

"You're gonna lose your job if you don't get up."

Elk, in the meantime, pads his way up to his human's face and gives another obnoxious, slimy lick. Thranduil growls menacingly and limply attempts to brush the dog away, who instead nuzzles his cheek and whines worriedly.

"Thranduil, come on." The tone in Peredhel's voice has just softened a little: but still, Thranduil doesn't move. He can't bring himself to move because, simply put, he doesn't  _care_. 

"No."

"It's an  _order_."

"And so?"

Elrond blinks for a moment, stares at Thranduil and realizes he has to calm himself down. He walks out of the room: completely exasperated he continues opening blinds and switching lights on, sun flooding into a messy home. Thranduil's house is a badly-arranged concotion of a fucked up past and a messy present kept together with peeling duct tape, the same that keeps a blond eight year old boy's (there was a Spongebob plaster over his right eyebrow and two on his knee the last time he saw him) drawings up on the living room windows. Elrond catches his eyes gazing over them and he can't help but smile to himself, and Thranduil might be messed up beyond belief but at least there's one good thing in his life, one thing he's maybe not going to destroy.

Legolas Greenleaf is the type of kid you don't want to see broken in ten years' time.

Elk walks behind him and nuzzles his hip, then proceeding to trot into the kitchen and sit in front of his empty bowl. Elrond stares at him for a few moments (he's never liked the dog but can't help but pity him right now, the same way he pities Legolas and the same way he pities Thranduil for letting himself crash again) before forcing a switch in his brain and realizing Elk needs to be fed.  _Smart dog_ , he catches himself thinking, before making his way into the kitchen and pouring a large dose of dog food into the hound's metallic bowl. The dry food pings against the metal, and the pungent smell of dog food fills Elrond's nostrils.

He grimaces: he's a  _cat_  person, for Chrissake. But he scritches Elk's ears nonetheless, and the Great Dane's tail starts thumping the floor loudly as he munches. Elrond feels his lips quiver into something that dangerously feels like a smile, so he rinses his hands in the sink, and the tap clangs and rattles uncomfortably. 

And now, on to step two (and God knows how many times he's had to do this): Elrond digs through every cupboard, every nook and cranny, every hole where alcohol could be hidden, and ends with two empty bottles of Jack Daniel's and a half empty bottle of red wine, plus an unopened bottle of vodka.

Thranduil is going to kill him. But he knows it's something he has to do, and unceremoniously empties the alcohol down the drain.

It's not a messy house as much as it is a  _disorganized_  one: Elrond notices a pile of laundry, of all things, sitting on the counter. It's so  _Thranduil_  it hurts, and as Peredhel picks it up to move it into the living room, paper rustles underneath. He sets the pile of underpants and size "eight to twelve" Iron Man shirts aside to find four still-sealed envelopes.

He knows right away what they are: bills, overdue, unpaid. Elrond sighs and runs a hand through his hair.

"You didn't tell me you were out of money," he mutters as he walks back into Thranduil's bedroom.

"Oh."

Dumbfounded blink.

"Okay.  _Good_."

Greenleaf's managed to drag himself out of bed and take what smells (lavender and mint) like a quick shower: wet hair sticking to his face, he's attempting to button his shirt with shaking, sickly hands. He's even shaved, but he still looks dead.

"Let me do it," Elrond kindly says, wrestling the shirt out of Thranduil's hands and quickly buttoning it.

"I'm not out of money," Thranduil mutters, "not yet, at least."

"Not yet? Did you win the postcode lottery and forget to tell me?" Elrond chuckles as he knots Thranduil's tie. Greenleaf feels humiliated about being dressed like a baby, but part of him is too tired to care.

"No."

"So then you  _are_  out of money."

"Elrond-"

But Peredhel's already stuffed four fifty pound bills into Greenleaf's shirt's breastpocket, "You'll pay me back when you can."

"I don't need this."

"This isn't for  _you_ , it's for  _Legs_." Elrond replies, "and if you use it to buy alcohol I am  _ripping your head off._ " he curtly adds, and reminds Thranduil just of how much trouble he's actually in.

Thranduil sighs and for the first time throughout the whole morning looks vaguely human.

"C'mon, I'll drive you to work."

"I can get there on my own, you know."

"No. No you can't."

The dark haired man raises his eyebrows at his friend and both of them know it's true. "I don't mind, really," he adds as he makes his way into the hallway and opens the front door, "Just, be quick, I have a plane to catch."

Thranduil blinks as he slips his jacket on, "A plane? To where?"

"Cambodia."

Thranduil's very suddenly aware he's just choked on his own spit. "Cambodia? ...W _hy_?"

 "An old friend needs help."

( _oh jesus_ _it doesn't mean anything_ _oh don't be ridiculous **it does**_ _oh christ oh christ christ christ_ )

"Hold on, I need to get Elk."

"... _Elk_?"

"Can't leave him at home," Thranduil quickly mutters, cursing his hands for shaking as he attaches a leash to the Great Dane's collar, "he's too big, he'll wreck the place. Plus he needs to spend some time in the garden and I can't let him do that unsupervised."

"You're not bringing him to the off-"

"No, don't worry. I have a neighbor who looks over him."

His voice sounds much less slurred, Elrond's happy to notice: Greenleaf's slowly but surely starting to wake up, or attempt to. It's a start, and a step forward from the amoeba curled up under the covers. The two make their way out of the door, dog happily padding behind them. Elrond walks down the porch steps and opens his Audi.

Thranduil and Elk walk up to the house a few homes down theirs: a run-down old place, with vines clambering over it, a large tree right next to it and... rabbits running around the garden. Definitely not the cleanest house on Greenwood Road, but the flowers adorning the windowsills are brightly colored, and unreasonably cheery. Maybe that's what makes the house look so  _homely_  no matter the rest of its appearance.

Greenleaf rings the doorbell once. There's no answer. He rings it again. Still, the home remains perfectly quiet.

Elrond glances at his watch and feels himself start growing impatient. Thranduil rings again, peers into a window, and just shrugs. He tugs onto Elk's leash, who's in the meantime been nosing the bunnies curiously, and makes his way back to Elrond's car.

"No one home?"

"No, and it's... strange. He's usually always at home."

"What's his name?"

"I don't think he needs a background check, Elrond. He's not one of Arwen's boyfriends. He just keeps an eye on my dog."

Peredhel frowns at him, "But anyway, his name's... Robert? I think? Reginald. Mister Brown." Thranduil continues, patting Elk on the head. The dog whines happily and starts slobbering onto his pants. Elrond stares at him in absolute terror, grimaces and then looks back up at Greenleaf, who seems to care very little that his beast of a dog is drooling over his clothes. Elrond stares at Thranduil and at Elk sitting next to him, and Greenleaf suddenly looks absolutely  _devastated_ , although devastated isn't even the exact word: he looks tired of a lot of things, but mainly of existing ( _call his therapist_ , Elrond makes a mental note,  _force him to see her again_ ) and looks very much on the brink of collapsing again. There's no place he can leave Elk: it's a small thing that, adde onto the rest of the pile, weighs as much as the rest.

The thought that's just slithered into Elrond's brain, though, both horrifies him and amazes him at the same time, and he can't tell whether it's because it is simply  _insane_  or just because he's not used to thinking that way.

"If you want he can... stay at my place for the day."

Thranduil stares at Elrond long and hard.

"You're joking, right?"

"No. I mean, for  _today_ , since Arwen's on vacation and her mother's picking her up along with the twins since I'll be away for a couple of days."

Peredhel's mind rushes to his picture-perfect couches and squeaky-clean floors, and to the fact that Arwen hates Elk with all her might, and to the fact that he has a cat, for Chrissake, a beautiful snotty Persian white girl named Lily that won't be all too happy to see her territory invaded by the Slobberdog From Hell. His entire body screams at him in utter panic. He mentally yells back and swallows the nervousness, forces himself to grin at Elk.

"Are you. Are you sure?" Thranduil tentatively asks, marvelling at his own damn luck. He needs  _loads_  of luck right now, since he's mysteriously completely run out of it as of recent.

" _Positive_. Now hop in, you two, I need to be at Heathrow in an hour and a half."

* * *

The pat on the back that hits Bilbo is more of a smack, really, and it's followed by a bemused chuckle. Baggins coughs into his hands and glares up: Bofur's grinning at him. The man's wearing a grey newsie cap that lets his ears bear, revealing a golden earring on his left earlobe. He's carrying his usual metal briefcase with him and what Bilbo notices is a gun peeking out from where it's tucked in the waist of his jeans.

Bilbo frowns at him, "Good morning," he mutters as the rest of the party joins him, Balin, Dwalin, Thorin, the brothers and G at the streetcorner they're waiting on. It's only ten AM but the side road's already bustling with energy and people, and the fourteen men just standing there, Bilbo quietly tells himself, are all but  _inconspicuous_.

"Morning, lad," Bofur replies, lighting what's probably already his twentieth cigarette. He smacks his lips and looks around. Bilbo glances at him and notices Bofur's eyes subtly trailing over his watch (a pricey gift from his mother some years back)- Bilbo's not entirely sure the other's noticed  _he_ 's noticed, so Baggins cautiously covers his wrist with his hand. Bofur quickly looks back up, swallows, and asks Bilbo: "D'you sleep well?"

Bilbo's not sure if "does being yelled at by Thorin Oakenshield for inquiring about his presonal life and subsequently tested and humiliated by him sound like a good night and start of the day to you?" would be considered a polite thing to say, so he just nods, chuckles awkwardly and answers:

"All right, you?"

"Like a baby." the other says, actually genuinely  _smiling_  at Bilbo (Baggins thinks it looks like one of the most terrifying expressions he's ever seen, a mix between an absolutely demented grin and a shark eyeing its next meal), before turning around and assembling around Thorin like the others. Thorin, in the meantime, is obviously smoking. G absent-mindedly skits his eyes over the assembled men, mentally counting them, and smiles at Bilbo. Baggins suspects it's because he still feels bad for how Thorin treated him, but he wouldn't be a hundred percent sure. He has a feeling most of the people there pity him.

"So, about the tip-off?" Dori asks as his youngest brother crowds next to him: Ori, in all honesty, looks more bored than lost, but for some reason Bilbo considers him somewhat of a kindred spirit. As in, "Jesus shit why on Earth are we both stuck in this mess".

What Bilbo unfortunately doesn't know is that Ori absolutely  _wanted_  to come along (and part of this is due to the fact that Nori was somehow fueling his little brother's enthusiasm about the whole heist- obviously to get under Dori's skin) and his enthusiasm waned only when he found himself (as if seeing their dickhead arrogant smiles all over campus wasn't enough) face to face with the Princesson-Oakenshield brothers. It's not that he hates the two, it's that they're so unbelieavably stupid at times that it makes him want to scream. 

By "at times" he means "most times".

Thorin glares at Dori, "Three blocks down, there's an abandoned warehouse. The informant said we'd find something... interesting."

"And you trust the informant?"

It's Nori who sounds skeptical, this time, and his arched eyebrow seems to go well with what looks helluva lot like a sarcastic smirk ready to split his face in two. He nods at Thorin, condescending, and scratches a stubbly cheek. Dwalin notices with a tinge of annoyance the mocking, knowing gaze he and Bofur exchange.

"I would like to remind you,  _Rison_ , that until Baggins over there doesn't crack open my father's USB key we're in the fucking  _dark_."

Bilbo wishes he could disappear (possibly melting into a shapeless pinkish puddle) into the ground. Bofur glances at him and simply shrugs.

"Can't _he_ help?" Rison snaps back, then, looking at G. 

"He's tried," Thorin hisses at Nori, "but it's beyond his capability."

"Well then, no one told me your father was the new Goddamn Bill Gates-"

"You watch your  _mouth_ , you fuck-"

"All right. That's enough."

Thorin glares up at whoever's dared to interrupt a rapidly developing (much to the amusement of everyone assembled, except for Bilbo, of course, and Ori, who's vaguely annoyed at his brother, and G, who really isn't in the mood for babysitting twelve adult teenagers) ego clash, only to meet Dwalin's stern, furrowed and clearly annoyed brow. Nori opens his mouth to reply, Dwalin points a finger at him, "We've got enough shit to deal with right now as it is." 

MacFundin turns to look back at Thorin, "We go there, and we see, and the worst thing that can happen is it's some kind of sick fucking joke. The best thing is that Smaug's there."

Although everyone doubts he is. Except for Thorin, who's so wrapped up in his pride he doesn't want to stop to entertain the possibility of being completely and utterly wrong. G has a feeling Dwalin is perfectly aware of the fact and is just rolling along the same way you tell a crazy person everything they say is utterly and perfectly true. 

As if he's used to Thorin not being entirely connected to reality.

"Three blocks down. Second warehouse to the left."

Dwalin nods at him, sublty slips a pair of brass knuckledusters on, Bilbo feels panic surge through him, an excited smile blossoms on Kili's lips.

And G senses the whole mess is going to probably end in disaster.

* * *

He missed the tension, he's forced to admit to himself.

The way he can feel his heart beat right against his throat, the metallic taste of hysteria barely kept at bay (it's a similar feeling to the one he had back when the home burned down- only that this time it's less scary. He's in control of this feeling, of the adrenaline pumping through him, just like when he was on the battlefield).

Thorin licks his lips and can feel something else: a slight doubt he knew was there but hadn't listened to earlier. But his back's already against the (disturbingly quiet) warehouse's wall and he's clutching a gun and there's fourteen other men depending on him.

And suddenly he feels incredibly doubtful- but really, at this point, it matters basically nothing. He glances back and is pleased (and terrified) to see Fili right behind him: the two exchange a quick nod, and then Thorin takes a deep breath.

Bilbo, on the other hand, is utterly unnerved: he's standing behind Bofur who's standing behind G (who's in the meantime whipped out a slick, elegant gun out of his coat pocket) and soon realizes he's the only one there who's virtually unarmed: even Ori has a weapon, a small Swiss knife Dori gave him as a birthday present.

"So, do you think this is safe?"

"No." Bofur placidly answers, rummaging through his briefcase and pulling out a suppressor for his gun. He screws it on, humming to himself.

Baggins swallows, eyes it and wonders for the millionth time why he's there. He could be at home. Drinking iced tea. Watching reruns of the BBC's Robin Hood.

 

And, right then, Thorin kicks down the door, screaming. The others follow, Bilbo starts praying.

" _Shit_ ," Kili mutters.

The place is obviously completely devoid of anyone- if you don't count the bunch of birds that fluttered off the minute the door was kicked open.

Thorin stands in the middle of the empty, huge room and shuts his eyes and runs a hand over his mouth and sighs while everyone else crowds around him. He intently stares at the floor and curses Baggins and G and his father under his breath: he needs that key opened and ready to be used. He needs it  _desperately_.

The place is empty and Thorin feels like an idiot.

Someone scoffs behind him (it annoys him worse than the sheer embarrassment he's feeling right now).

It's Nori, arms crossed, eyebrow arched, shit-eating smirk back in place. 

" _Why_ does this not surprise me?"

"Why don't you shut the fuck up?"

Dwalin rolls his eyes at both of them and stares at the ceiling, sighing.

The middle Rison brother takes a few broad steps and stands a few inches from Thorin. He's twirling a knife in one hand, head cocked to the side: he feels superior to the frustrated, teeth-gritting, fist-clenching Thorin standing in front of him. He's the wolf and Oakenshield's nothing but the snarling pup, Nori likes to tell himself.

He hates the man. Simply put, their egos are too large to coexist in the same place without clashing. Better sooner than later: better eye out than always ache.

"Hm, let me think, maybe because I actually _know how this shit works_?"

"Rison, I advise you-"

"Listen up,  _rich boy_ , I'm the fucking professional, and you're the only one who needs to shut up here."

" _Make me_ ," Thorin suddenly growls, grabbing Nori by the shirt and pulling him so their faces are level.

"Well, Oakenshield, I know a million different ways to  _hide a body_ -"

"Enough. _The both of you_."

It isn't Dwalin, surprisingly: it's G who's placed a hand on each of their shoulders and is now roughly pulling them apart, Thorin tearing himself out of the old man's grasp almost immediately, and glaring at Nori who snickers in his direction and fixes his hair in place, slicked back. Rison then lights himself a cigarette as G drags Thorin into a corner, far from the others.

" _My people_ can help you with the key, Thorin."

"Your people?"

"I know agents good enough with these things to crack open any given system. _Peredhel_ -"

"Oh, I'm not even going to listen."

" _Oakenshield_ -"

" _2002_. I watch half of my boys die under enemy fire. Five survive including me. I get _betrayed_ , we get kidnapped and four months of absolute, unforgettable  _Hell_ begin. I'm the only one who makes it out alive. _Where the fuck was Peredhel back then_?"

"Thorin-"

" _Eleven years later_. A madman places a bomb in my childhood home. You know what help came from Peredhel? None. His little bitch Greenleaf snickered in my fucking face while he told me my father was  _dead_ _."_  

"He's the only one who can help you."

"I don't  _care._ I don't need whatever fucking help he has to give me."

"Smaug is a threat to him as much as he's a threat to  _you_ , will you just-"

Thorin clenches his jaw.

"No."

G stares at him straight in the face, blankly.

"You are  _impossible_. The more you run around refusing anyone's help the more Smaug gains an advantage on all of us!"

"No one asked you to babysit."

The agent blinks a few times at Oakenshield, stifles an exhasperated laugh and turns around before storming past everyone and walking outside. Bilbo cranes his neck, "G?" he calls out, slightly panicked again, "Where- uh. Where are you going?"

"As far as possible from Oakenshield as I can before I wring his neck, Baggins!" the other calls out, and soon disappears around a corner.

"Happy to see I'm not the only one," Nori mutters past his cigarette. Dwalin glares at him and for a moment, Rison seems to cower back. But it's a millisecond, and Bilbo tells himself he's tricked himself to see it.

"Cigarette?" Bofur offers Bilbo, who shakes his head. He feels slightly lost without G: it's not that the man doesn't scare him to death, but G looked like the only one with a minimum of self control, along with Fili and Ori. Thorin snaps easily, and so does Kili. Dwalin is covered in tattoos, for Chrissake. The rest are arms dealers and bounty hunters.  _Madmen_.

"Do you figure he'll come back?"

"Probably not," Bofur replies, shrugging.

* * *

"Well that was pathetic."

"Oh,  _Kili_ -"

The youngest raises his eyebrows at his brother: they've wandered off out of the warehouse, roaming around the place. It looks like an old storage facility: there's four other identical buildings, all clearly abandoned.

"Don't tell me you didn't feel  _some_ ounce of second-hand embarrassment."

"A little, maybe. But he screwed up. Everyone does."

"You justify him too much."

"And you criticize him too much. He's your uncle."

"The fact that he's family doesn't necessarily mean I need to love him. Friendly reminder he broke my nose."

"We  _know_."

Kili scowls at Fili (who's doing nothing bad except trying to keep everything together, for once, and not doing a very good job) and rolls his leather jacket sleeves up. It's ridiculous to wear leather in such hot weather, but Kee is one with the jacket (which he "borrowed" from Thorin when he was sixteen and subsequently "forgot" to give back) and has been for the past four years.

"But anyway-"

" _Hold up_." 

Fili grabs Kee and pushes him back against the wall. He glances over the corner. There's three men: tall and burly and large, they're clearly loudly arguing with each other.

"Now, he said they'd be  _here_ -"

"And you trust an _informant_ , Bert-"

"Well, William, I don't think you really understand that-"

"WILL YOU TWO KEEP QUIET?"

Fili glances at Kili who looks back at him. "Holy. Fucking. Shit," the oldest mouths. Kili swallows and blinks: so it _was_ a trap after all. He doesn't know whether to laugh or cry, because, honestly, he feels as if he's just been thrown headfirst into a spy novel. Whilst this terrifies Bilbo, it fills Kili with absolute reckless glee. The two hear footsteps behind them, and Kili quickly flips around, gun drawn and ready to fire.

Bilbo finds himself staring at the two and wonders if punching them would imply their uncle killing him. He answers himself with a resonant and mental  _Yes indeed_! whilst the dark-haired boy quickly lowers his weapon.

"Right. Bilbo. What are you doing here?" he whispers.

"G stormed off and I went looking for you two."

"Marvellous," Fili whispers. "Keep your voice down."

"Uh,  _why_?"

"Because we have a... problem."

"What... kind of problem?"

As a response, Fili presses a finger to his lips and points at behind the corner. Bilbo peers and sees the three men from before. He quickly pulls back.

"They have guns."

"Yes they do."

"Shouldn't we... tell Thorin?"

"No. Noooohoho," Kili quickly says, "unless you want him to find a way to get all of us  _killed_ _."_

Fili seems to be thinking, for a moment, green eyes staring at the dust in front of him. 

"One of us should go and see what they want." he then blurts out.

"Apart from  _blowing us to bits_?" Bilbo mutters.

"Well you could go and. Spy on them. From the back."

Baggins furrows his brow.

"Me?"

"... _yeah_."

"Why can't... you two go?"

"Because have you  _seen_  us?"

Bilbo stares at Kili in complete confusion.

"They're British. If they read tabloid magazines, they probably know who we are."

Bilbo blinks: "You've been in tabloid magazines?"

"We're... rich? And stupid? And  _young_?" Fee says, as if that explains everything, "of course? We've been in tabloid magazines?"

Baggins looks from one brother to the next, and squints. Kili grins encouragingly. 

"But now, we really need you to go out there and investigate. You're smart, you're capable. I mean, come on, aren't you one of the best hackers out there?"

"How does  _hacking_ have to do with _sneaking up behind people_?"

"Something tells me it does, Bilbo. Now, just go."

Bilbo swallows loudly.

"What if something goes wrong?"

"We'll be right behind you," Fili chimes in.

"We  _promise_." his brother adds.

Bilbo knows he shouldn't trust the two. Every sense in his body is screaming at him to turn around, grab his things and hop on the next plane to Heathrow.

Exactly five minutes later, he's flattening himself against the wall opposite the three mysterious men, and praying nobody hears him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, [Kasia](http://durinium.tumblr.com/) over on Tumblr created a wonderful instrumental fanmix for this fic, called [Collateral Damage: Symphony](https://8tracks.com/radiofreeimpala/symphony). Go check it out, it's badass.


	12. ix

Bilbo Baggins hates his life.

Right now, at least, because let's face it: in general, he doesn't have much reason to do so. But there's something about standing five meters behind three burly, large,  _armed_  med (whom, and this he's just noticed, are all carrying large tanks of what suspiciously looks like and probably is petrol- no doubt with the intention of burning them all to smithereens) that might just make one utterly despise their own predicament.

He swallows and glances to his right: Fili and Kili, who'd followed him up to there, have obviously disappeared. Not that he'd ever even  _doubted_  it: the spoiled brats are exactly that, spoiled (and cowardly, he might add, but he's not the one to pontificate right now, since he's positively shitting his pants), and certainly no acts of valor are requested from them in the immediate future.

_Why, again, did I agree to come along_? Bilbo asks himself. For the money, of course, since the reward is more than wealthy (if he manages to do his job, that is, and his latest failure seems to prove otherwise). But there's something else, too: there's some rush hidden away somewhere in his brain, in that area he locked shut tight after three men dressed all in black showed up seven years earlier at the door of his tiny apartment (the one he owned- or better still, rented, before the one he lives in now), grabbed his computer and most of his things and shoved it all into cardboard boxes, never to be seen again. And that something's been poking at his brain for the last three days or so, ever since he read that damn contract and held those damn plane tickets.

So here he is, trying to get as close as he can without being seen and trying to understand at least  _something_  of what the three are snapping at each other without getting, well, killed. Mainly, who they are, what they want, and if they're with Smaug.

Which they probably are.

(In short, he's not exactly enjoying it, but some part of him isn't exactly regretting it either).

"Now listen, William-"

"Bert, I've been listening for the past half hour!"

"Well then listen some more!"

Bilbo slightly peers over the side of the building to see whoever happens to be Bert towering over whoever appears to be William, waving his gun inches from his nose.

"The boss said he wants Oakenshield alive, so we're gonna give him Oakenshield  _alive_!"

"Alive doesn't mean with all of his body parts, does it?"

"Tom, has someone asked for your opinion?" Bert snarls. Tom takes a step back from the bickering duo, "Well, we can chop a hand off, can't we? That way he's alive but also in pain, I doubt the boss'll mind?"

" _The boss said he wants him alive_ -"

"But he said nothing about  _well_." the other replies and glares towards Bilbo. Bilbo quickly ducks behind the corner again and starts praying.

" _Jesus_ ," he mutters, and holds his breath. They can't have possibly seen him, can they?

He swallows, sighs for the millionth time, glances at the sky and turns around again. 

"Well hey there, precious"

And finds himself with the barrel of a gun pointing at his nose, and three smirking faces inches from his.

Oh. Oh God no.

* * *

"Oh shit oh shit oh shit holy shit fucking fuck Jesus Christ fucking oh God are you fucking kiddin-"

But Kili's hysterical string of curses is interrupted by his brother's hand slamming over his mouth, resulting in it becoming nothing but a terrified whine as he gestures wildly. Fili glares at him before letting him go and Kee breathes sharply.

"We're screwed."

Fili rolls his eyes at his brother.

"No, Fee.  _We are completely fucking screwed_."

Fili glances over at the henchmen and at Bilbo, who is apparently arguing animatedly with the three of them. With a gun pointed at his head.

Actually, three.

"Okay. Plan.", Fili says, and signals his brother to come close.

"Plan?"  


"Yes."

Kili nods, excited, and crouches next to Fili. Fili places both hands on his brother's shoulders and starts whispering: "Okay so, we go and warn Thorin about this, and then-"

" _What_? What if they kill Bilbo while we're-"

" _They won't_."

Kili arches an eyebrow. Fili frowns back at him.

"...Maybe."

"How about one of us warns Thorin while the other tries to save Bilbo?"

"Of all the dumb ideas you've ever had, this beats the time you decided to- Wait. Kee. Kee? What the fuck are you-"

But Kili's already standing up again, straightening his jacket and tying his hair back in a pony tail. 

"Kili. NO. Oh my God. NO."

"It'll be fine, c'mon."

"You'll get yourself killed. Oh my God."

"I'll be  _fine_."

"OH MY GOD."

Fili's staring at him, completely dazed. Five seconds later, and his little brother's run off, gun in hand. 

_"Oh shit oh shit oh shit holy shit fucking fuck_ -"

_Thorin is going to fucking kill him_.

_Dwalin is going to fucking kill him._

"-Jesus Christ fucking oh God are you fucKING KIDDING ME." 

_HIS MOTHER IS GOING TO FUCKING KILL HIM._

* * *

Bilbo swallows loudly, "Well, we can talk this out, can't we?"

"Just tell us why you were snooping, and we'll leave you alone."

"I wasn't... snooping."

Bilbo is a lot of things, but definitely not a good liar. And right now, his heart rate isn't making things particularly  _easy_. Or calm.

" _Bullshit_. He's with Oakenshield."

Tom wags his gun inches from Baggins and glares at William, "Last time I checked, Oakenshield had a bunch of ex-cons licking his ass, not this...  _whimp_."

Bilbo furrows his brow at all three of them before Bert asks, "What's your name, precious?"

"My? My name?"

"Yeah, your name."

Baggins gulps loudly.

"It's. It's. It's, uh. It's. It's. It's."

" _It's it's it's_. You with Oakenshield, you pussy?"

"How about we chop  _his_  hand off?"

" _Great idea, William_."

Bilbo knows his mouth's gone completely dry. He inches away slightly from the gun Tom's holding, which in the meantime gets rammed against his temple. The gasp is ragged and ghostly and terrified.

_I'm going to die_ , he realizes.  _They're going to kill me_. _They're going to kill me I'm going to die I'm going to die oh God oh God oh Go-_

"Oi. Assholes.  _Leave him alone_."

"What in the everloving fuck is that?"

The feeling of metal against his head suddenly disappears, as Tom, William and Bert all turn around to face Kili, who has his gun drawn and his teeth bared in a cocky snarl. Bilbo stares at him, completely bewildered.

"All right, who the fuck are you?"

"Kili Oakenshield,  _who the fuck are you_?"

"Oh, Goddammit." William snarls, clearly annoyed, before the grip of his gun hits Kee square in the face, and the boy topples over, blood pouring out of his split lip. 

And then William grabs him by the hair (Kili  _whines_ , a pitiful sound) and pulls him up.

* * *

"THORIN THORIN THORIN THORIN THORIN THORIN THORIN THORIN!"

Fili barges through the doors of the warehouse, chest heaving, and skits to a clumsy halt in front of Thorin. He leans on his knees and breathes loudly through his nose a few times, before glancing up at his uncle.

"Thorin. Hi."

Both Dwalin and Thorin are staring at him, torn between being confused and worried, and so is everyone else. Fili chokes on his own spit and then hauls himself fully upwards. He seems to think for a second about what to say, and then points at Dwalin first, "Don't kill me," then at Thorin, " _really_  don't kill me."

"What the fuck did you two do?"

It's Dwalin.

"And where's Kili?"

That's Thorin.

"Well there's been a... complication. Of sorts. Somehow. First things first. We're not alone, there's three guys out there who definitely want to kill us. Second, we, uh, sent Bilbo out to investigate-"

"You sent a Tesco's employee out to  _investigate_."

"Yes, Dwalin.  _That's exactly what we did,_ thank you for pointing out the sheer  _stupidity_  of it. Third," he adds, then turning back to face his uncle, "they obviously caught him, so Kili went to save him."

Dwalin scoffs, utterly  _amazed_ , Thorin stares at his oldest nephew for a few seconds, unblinking. "He. He  _what_?"

"Went to save him," Fili repeats.

"This isn't a  _fucking game, you idiots_!" Thorin snaps almost yelling at the blond, before storming out followed by the MacFundin brothers and the middle Rison brother. "You stay  _here_ ," Nori snarls at Ori who's already moving towards the door, and Dori places a hand on his little brother's shoulder to still him. Bofur glances up but does little else, torn between watching the mayhem unfold from a distance or experience it first-hand. His brother and cousin do the same and, for the moment, he goes back to cleaning his gun.

* * *

"All right, sweetheart, you with  _It's_  over there?"

"He said he was an Oakenshield, 'course he is!"

Kili, still on his knees, flinches as William tugs on his hair, violently. Bilbo glances at him, no less panicked, Tom's gun still firmly pointed at his head. 

"You let my little brother  _go_ , you fucking piece of shit." Fili hisses, and presses his gun to the back of William's head.

"Well  _look who's joined the party_." Bert snarls, sounding  _amused_ , of all things, before Thorin's palm hits him square in the face, and there's the sickening crunch of bone breaking.  He staggers backwards, surprised, spits out two teeth, and then William's grabbing Kili and ramming the gun against his temple so hard Bilbo's scared it'll drill a hole right through it. Kili whines, chest heaving in panicked, tearless sobs. Just as soon as he does this, Oakenshield's drawing his gun and pointing it at William, who's in the meantime dropped the gas tank and grabbed another gun and pointed it at him. Balin draws his own gun and points it at Tom, who grabs his second weapon and jams it inches from Balin's nose. Bilbo swallows, and Balin winks at him. He attempts to smile back, but knows his grin is definitely more of a terrified grimace. Dwalin quickly jumps into action, gun glittering into view ( _GRASPER_  engraved on the barrel in elegant, thin letters) and presses it against Tom's cheek.

His second gun, Keeper, flies up to level with Nori's right temple.

Rison doesn't look at all surprised, as his left hand presses a knife to Bert's throat (who's in the meantime recovered from the shock of being hit in the face, and pointed his gun at the back of Thorin's head), whilst the right one points a blade to Dwalin's left cheek.

"This feels like Tallinn all over again, doesn't it, Rison?"

Nori's smile is one quarter sarcastic and three quarters barely kept back murderous rage, "You and I remember Tallinn  _very_  differently."

"Now look at this pretty little gathering of ours," Bert says, sarcasm (and blood) dripping from every word he hisses. Thorin glares at him. "You move an  _inch_ , any of you pulls a trigger, and these two's brains paint the pavement. Are we clear?"

"More than clear." Thorin hisses back.

" _Splendid_."

"LET HIM GO."

There's a moment of utter shock and disbelief coming from everyone as someone else joins the party, and Tom finds himself with a pocket knife prickling the back of his neck as a very trembly, very awkward Ori pushes his glasses back up his nose with his free hand.

" _Ori_!" Nori exclaims, " _what the fuck are you_ -"

"You let Bilbo _go_!" 

There's a split second of stalling, before Tom's elbow quickly collides with Ori's sternum and then points the gun back at Bilbo, and the youngest Rison brother doubles over, coughing before his knees give out, and Nori roars his name but does little else, because he knows that if Dwalin's nephew's brains get hit by a bullet because of him his life is pretty much over. So he swallows down his boiling rage and steadies his hands, although he wants to _skin_ Tom alive (and he can't wait for the window of opportunity to do so).

Bilbo breathes loudly through his nose and hears Dwalin hiss, "We're still five against three."

"We've still got these two assholes right here," William smirks back, gun tapping against Kili's temple. Kee whines again, eyes squeezed tight, sweat dripping. Thorin suspects he's desperately trying not to cry, and this just makes his fear and rage worsen.

"Correction. We're  _nine_ against three."

"Broadbeam, I've never been happier to hear your voice in my entire existence," MacFundin blurts out, as Bofur arrives with a grin planted on his face, his cousin and Gloin and Oin Longbeard trailing behind, weapons ready, eyes burning. 

"So, lads, you gonna give up Mister Baggins and the kid here, or are we gonna have to come and get 'em?" Bofur chimes, smile becoming just a bit too manic. "Where's Dori and Bombur?" Balin mutters.

"Waiting for G to show his sorry ass," he whispers back.

Bert's laugh is hearty and utterly terrifying. "D'you really think we're that stupid?"

"As a matter of fact, yes."

Nori rolls his eyes at Bofur, who simply winks at him, knowing perfectly well he's getting on Rison's nerves. His grin falls, though, the minute he notices the red dot of a laser pointer shine between Bilbo's eyes, on Kili's chest, on Thorin, and Fili, and Dwalin, and Balin, and Nori, and Bifur, and Oin, and Gloin and poor little Ori.

And, of course, on himself.

It's Bert's turn to smirk, and wink: "We've got backup too,  _lads_."

Thorin glances around the enclosing buildings, but the snipers are hiding, and hiding  _well_ , and for the first time ever since he's tried to save Kili and Bilbo, his hands suddenly  _shake_ , violently, and he knows he's at loss. He clenches his jaw, breathes deep.

He doesn't know what to do, and this utterly terrifies him.

"Correction: _we_  have backup."

One thing that Bert, Tom and Will are extremely tired of is random people showing up. All they were supposed to do was set fire to Oakenshield's friends and drag Oakenshield back to their boss, but since everyone and their mother is showing up right now, things aren't going as smoothly as planned. Especially given the fact that the man who's just made such a grand entrance is nothing short of an urban legend. Ridiculously tall and ridiculously clad in all black despite the weather, G's just magically appeared as if called upon by the Fates themselves and, suddenly, the red dots on Thorin and the others have vanished, their snipers killed off by the very same people who are now pointing lasers at Tom, Bert and Will. Thorin lowers his weapon. The others do too.

G distracts himself for a moment to talk into an ear-piece, "Gwaihir? You and the boys all right? Good. Good.  _Excellent_."

Thorin is staring at G with a  _Where the fuck have you been up until now_? face of utter exasperation, but the other man takes little notice of it. "Now, if you three would be so kind as to let Oakenshield and his friends go-"

" _Out of the fuckin_ '-"

G's bullet lands five inches away from William's feet, and even Kili yelps hysterically, the sound evolving into a string of hysterical desperate sobs. Bombur and Dori rush out, alerted by the sound. Dori runs next to Ori immediately, offers him a hand. His brother refuses it, prefers to stay curled up on the ground instead.

"Shall I repeat the question?"

Bert frowns at him before lowering his gun and nudging at the others. Tom and William lower their guns, too, and Bilbo lurches forward, scuttling behind Bofur. His breathing is shallow and empty and he feels so incredibly disconnected and scared he isn't even fully aware of the fact he's the one feeling, but Broadbeam squeezes his arm and gives him a small, encouraging smile. Kili, on the other hand, nearly collapses: Fili shoves Tom aside and grabs his little brother just in time, half dragging, half carrying him away.

G nods, then peers over to check on Ori: Nori's crouching down next to him, one hand placed on his back, massaging in slow circles, another one still clutching a knife.

"All right," and then, into the ear-piece, "Gwaihir? Shoot them."

" _Wait_!" 

Nori's shot up, teeth bared in a ferocious, tiny snarl. A snarl both Bofur and Dwalin know very,  _very_ well: and "Oh, no." is exactly what Dwalin whispers the minute he sees him.

" _That one's mine_ ," Rison hisses, pointing at Tom with his knife. G stares at him for a second and then nods. "You still there? Yes. Shoot the two, except for the one on the right. Yes. Yes, the one who was holding Baggins."

"Why are you doing this?" Bilbo asks, as though he's just gained his voice back, and some sort of moral compass.

"Because they would've killed  _you_ , Mister Baggins, had they been given the chance. And because if we let them live, they'll run right back to whoever sent them and tell them everything they've seen. Now, things are going to get bloody unless you move."

" _Bilbo_."

It's Bofur, who's tugging slightly onto Baggins' arm. Bilbo bites down on his lip and glances at G, "But the fact that they wanted to kill us doesn't mean-"

" _Bilbo_!"

"It's the law of the fuckin' jungle, kid. Now tell your Gwa- _whateverthefuck_ buddy to get a move on, I have a job to do." Nori hisses, first at Bilbo, then at G. G nods at him as the others start to walk back. Bilbo feels... deafeated, of all things. Unreal. Disconnected. Ori's still breathing funny, and this time doesn't refuse Dori's hand. He stares at Nori, who doesn't turn to look at him, at Nori who starts flicking a balisong across his lean, strong fingers. The clack of the knife is blood-chilling in the quiet.

"You're not actually going to do it, are you?" Ori murmurs.

"He hurt you. He would've killed you."

"But you're gonna  _enjoy_ it."

Nori takes a breath to answer.

"Well he would've too."

Tom, Bert and Will have fallen perfectly silent, completely defeated. They've been staring at their feet for the past ten minutes or so. Tom feels very closely on the brink of crying. He wonders if this is how men on death row feel: and maybe it even is.

"Ori?" Kili asks, voice still shaky, Fili still next to him. "Ori? C'mon."

"I'm coming."

The redhead starts trudging his way towards the brothers. He draws a shaky breath when there's the horrifying sound of bullets whizzing through the air and of muffled screams and of two bodies hitting the ground with a soft  _thump_. Lucky for him, he doesn't hear his brother's voice hiss, bloodchilling and cynical and  _cold_ , "You like to laugh, you fucking bastard? Ever heard of a _Glasgow Smile_?"


	13. x

It takes Nori about twenty minutes to walk back inside, sleeves rolled up, forearms stained red. A cigarette's burning between his teeth and there's a blood splatter right under his left eye, something he swiftly wipes off with a handkerchief.

He ignores the shaky, scared glance Ori gives him.

He's carrying one of the tanks of petrol and sets it down with an uncomfortable clank. Honestly, he looks like a man who's just taken his dogs for a walk, or done the shopping, or watered the plants. But he's just brutally murdered a man and enjoyed every second of it (they all heard Tom's screams) and that's what makes the entire situation utterly  _ridiculous_ , in a way. But more than anything, it's horrible.

"I say we burn the bodies" he snaps, matter-of-factly, looking at G who's got his back at him.

"Gwaihir and the boys'll take care of that," the old man answers, shaking his head and turning around. Nori nods at him, literally not giving a fuck about who "Gwaihir and the boys" are, wiping the knives he used on the same handkerchief he cleaned his face with. G's mysterious snipers killed the other two and saved their lives. They're efficient enough for him.

"Same way they'll take care of the police? 'Cause Rison was everything but  _discreet_ -"

Nori rolls his eyes. So does Dwalin, despite himself. Thorin's said nothing up to now, save for an awkward "How are you?" mumbled at Kili, who obviously bristled in his uncle's general direction and spat a trembling "I'm  _fine_." A lie, of course, but sufficient for the both of them. It's Fili's job to pick up Kee's pieces, not Thorin's: Thorin missed his chance to do so three years ago.

"No one asked you to approve of my methods, Oakenshield. You're the head of this joyous brigade, you could've  _stopped me_."

The last words are spat out almost in sing-song, and Nori is positively  _grinning_  at Thorin. "Please don't pretend your morals are better than mine."

"At least I don't  _gut people_."

"Oh the  _shit you've done_ that MacFundin's told me when he was drunk-"

"You shut the fuck up  _right now_!" Dwalin roars, staring at Nori with a terrifying, unforgiving flame in his eyes neither Fili nor Kili, at least, have ever seen. "You hiss one more worthless ounce of bullshit and I am hanging you with your guts from the ceiling."

"MacFundin, sweetheart, when did we ever get so  _hateful_?"

"Your GUTS, Rison."

The younger man stares at him, for a second, before licking his lips that curl in a smirk and giving Thorin a sideways glance, "Y'know what would look  _great_  on him? On Oakenshield, I mean," and then turning back to Dwalin, "a Bolivian necktie. Might do us all a favor and give his tongue something useful to do, for once."

The back of Dwalin's hand hits Nori straight in the face, and he stumbles back, giggles (no one notices the millisecond-long look of unabridged  _hatred_  he gives Dwalin, except for Dwalin, of course, who's used to it) and snaps: "I was  _waiting_  for that."

Thorin glares both at MacFundin and at Rison, who's obviously the only one laughing, and decides to ignore his first impulse of ripping his head off in favor of attempting to at least remain somewhat calm (both Fili and Kili are staring at Dwalin, wide-eyed and utterly in shock). 

Thorin straightens his shirt and wipes hair out of his eyes, "We'll leave from the back, it'll draw less attention. You're  _sure_  you'll take care of the police?"

G's nod is quick and brisk, "Positive."

"Good."

Nori pushes past Thorin as he's stepping outside, roughly ramming his shoulder against his, and when Oakensheild instinctively grabs his wrist, Rison rips himself out of his grasp and spats, ever-present cocky smirk never leaving his face:

"Watch it,  _Blue Eyes_."

The look Thorin gives him is of pure  _rage_ , and Nori knows he's hit his target.

* * *

"We're being followed."

"Still?"

Dwalin nods at Thorin. Oakenshield arches an eyebrow behind his sunglasses, costly designer lenses smugly resting on the bridge of his nose. "You're  _shitting me_."

"Wish I was."

Thorin scoffs and eyes G, who's heard their conversation. He's noticed someone to his left and has been noticing them for the past five minutes, which is ever since they left the warehouses behind them, creeping through backalleys: fifteen men looking everything but  _innocuous_ making their way back to their respective hotels to wait for instructions on their next move. Which Thorin has, for now, no idea of what it'll be. Honestly, he's surprised anyone still trusts him or trusted him to begin with, apart from Fili, of course (Kili is, as per usual, a different matter entirely: Oakenshield's quickly brought himself to think Kee was dragged into all this solely because he cannot function without his brother, but if it's enough to keep Kili sane and afloat, then it's fine with him).

And he's certainly not so naive or pathetic or helpless as to think that  _Dwalin_  still trusts him. Dwalin's scared of what he might do to himself and Dwalin cares for him, but Dwalin does not trust him. Not even Dis trusts him. Hell, he doesn't even trust  _himself_.

They walk a few more seconds before Dwalin flips around, grabs a man walking next to him and shoves him with his back against a wall in an alleyway. It's a sudden gesture that starles everyone, but G quickly rushes over, freezes before he can talk, tries to snap out of his surprise and then hardly stifles a laugh.

"... _you_?"

"In the flesh."

"We thought you were  _dead_."

"You  _did_  try to kill me a couple of times."

"You went rogue, it's protocol, we  _had to_."

"That was  _twenty-three years ago_."

"Oh, you know how hard S finds it to let things go.  _What are you doing here_?"

"Following you, of course."

G stares at the man in front of him for a handful of dumbfounded seconds before rubbing his eyes with his right index and thumb and then hardly stifling a laugh. He steps back, and Bilbo peers over at the newcomer suspiciously: greasy beard, floral print shirt, plastic flip flops and all.

"Who the fuck is this?" Dwalin hisses.

"This is...  _R_. He used to be a colleague, of sorts."

"Of sorts?" Thorin asks.

R points at G, "Up until he tried to kill me."

"You went  _rogue_ , what else was I supposed to do? Now, how about I offer you a drink?"

* * *

They're sitting at a small bar, outside: Thorin, G, R and Bilbo at one table (Thorin didn't want Baggins there, G insisted he stay- Thorin didn't even want to  _stop_ , deemed it too dangerous), Dwalin, Fili and Kili at another. The others are scattered around, keeping an eye out, grabbing a bite. 

R suddenly lowers his voice and leans as close as he can towards G, "There's something I need to show you."

" _Me_?"

Out from the folds of R's brightly coloured shirt appears a black floppy disk, of all things, and R holds it up for everyone to see.

"That's a floppy disk." Bilbo blankly states, as if R's just pulled out a severed hand from his pocket.  _Who on Earth still uses floppy disks_?

"This isn't just any floppy disk."

"No?" G asks, somewhat feigning interest- although part of him  _is_  actually curious. R might be completely bonkers, but he's definitely not stupid.

"Oh, no. Are you wired?"

"No."

"Will you kill me after this meeting?"

Bilbo furrows his brow at R whilst G placidly answers, "No, R, nobody will kill you after this meeting. You can fly back to London and keep on taking care of your rabbits."

"I thought you thought I was dead."

"I thought that by now you knew I'm a good liar. Cigarette?"

"Are they poisoned?"

"No. They're medical."

R narrows his eyes and puffs a few smoke rings, as he gingerly places the square piece of plastic on the shaky alluminium table. "We have a problem, G. A horrible, very bad problem, and I've got all the information right here, but you're the only one I can trust about it."

G seems to take everything R says with a grain of salt and very little trust, appearing as very understanding and definitely unconcerned: R, after all, was convinced for years that the CIA was slipping LSD in his morning coffee as part of an experiment (it much later turned out they actually were and this nearly caused a diplomatic incident of catastrophic size, quickly avoided by one Haldir L. O'Rien, who might just be a PA, but  _damn_  if he's good at his job).

Up until R mentions the words  _Morgoth_. And  _NeCRO_. And  _Operation ANG-mar._ Because right then and there, G's expression changes completely. From sympathetic to displaced. From unconcerned to scared. He bolts up, grabs the disk and ushers R away from both Thorin and Bilbo, who want everything in the world but to be stuck in each other's uncomfortable company.

"You're the one who's been breaking into our security systems, aren't you?" R shuffles his feet, uneasy, and nods, and G continues: "Is there anything else you found?"

"I--"

" _Is there anything else you found_?"

"The server was Dol Guldur."

"That server's been dead for  _years_."

"Well, apparently  _not_."

"Jesus. Are you  _sure_  it was-"

G can't finish his phrase: bullet whizzes inches from R's face and hits the wall next to them. He dodges it miraculously, G dragging him to the side, and as the two try to regain their composure as fast as they can, Thorin, Bilbo and the rest run over, Oakenshield yelping: "Are these friends of yours  _too_?"

"No!" G snaps back, exasperated. Bullets start whizzing around them, spreading chaos. "But I advise you get out of the line of fire as soon as possible, gentlemen!"

Thorin's already sprinting forward, gun in hand, and as he goes he turns to yell: " _Run_!"

"I'll hold them back while I can!" R says, making sure the disc is safe in G's hands. "You'll get yourself  _killed_. It's too dangerous." the other man snaps, but all he gets is a scoff in reply, and with a manic little grin, R disappears into the crowd. Which is exactly when Bilbo notices the motorcycles, and the men riding them, wearing helmets and gloves and carrying guns, and every fiber in his body tells him the hunt has only just begun, and as things often go, Bilbo Baggins' instincts are seldom wrong.

The last thing they hear R say is: " _Dangerous_? I'd like to see them  _try_."

Bilbo stares, unblinking, at the motorcycles- because suddenly he realizes how horrifying, how big, how scary what he's gotten himself into actually is- but someone's already grabbing him by the arm and dragging him along. It's Bofur, briefcase turned into a messenger bag, grey strap flung across his chest, gun in the other hand. Running is  _vital_  right now, because this isn't a fucking game anymore and it never truly was, and Bilbo trips for a moment as he tries to steady his feet and  _panic_  is already taking hold of him, maybe because things are happening much too fast for him and there's already been too many guns pointed at him and he cannot, cannot, cannot handle another one, and God does he want to go  _home_  but he can't, and for now all he needs to do is survive.  Everything feels so ridiculous he'd laugh if there wasn't the menacing horrifying roar of motorcycles behind them, the scream of people scuttling out of the way as bullets start flying again, the thought that they are targets and this is their own personal war zone and if he'd look at Thorin he'd see him more scared than he's been in a while, more scared than he's been in years. Thorin is an addict: a fear junkie, a pain junkie, a loss junkie. But just as long as he is partially in control. Just as long as he knows what's going on, just as long as he's not caught off-guard. Right now he is nothing of the sort, and Fili and Kili are here, and he wasn't meant to drag them into this, God Kili wasn't supposed to have a gun pointed at his head, he's twenty years old and he hates him and he's young and impulsive and naive  _and a gun was not supposed to be rammed against his temple._  But Thorin doesn't know what else is in store for them, not yet, what blood dripping from teeth what empty scared eyes.

 _And he should count himself lucky_.

( _If one of you gets hurt, I'm going to make you regret the day you were born, Thorin_ ).

But right now he doesn't think about his sister, he can't: suddenly, the loud spluttering sound of an aging motor tears him away from the simple notion of  _keeping everyone alive_ , and Thorin glances over his shoulder when there's the clear sound of a crash, but he doesn't stop running.

And what he sees is R on an old beige cross motorbike that he's just rammed against one of the others' bikes and thrown it off course.

Bilbo, on the other hand, just thinks about running, and running, and running, now that R's helping them out (risking a bullet lodged in his body every three seconds) and G is frowning visibly at the ex-agent's antics: but if it gets them out of this alive then all the better. Because rushing through a crowd has its good side and its bad side, its advantages and faults: on one hand, you can be seen less. On the other, you run slower, attract more attention from passersby and need to try and not kill anyone if worse comes to worst and you need to shoot.

(Anyone who isn't hunting you down, that is).

G takes a sharp left when he realizes R's buying them enough time to not to not get too noticed, as the bikes roar behind them and the man wearing flip flops does everything he can to keep the thugs at bay, distracting them enough that they want to kill him and not the other fifteen men, for the time being. G turns left and everyone follows, scuttling from the main road into yet another alleyway, and they hide in the dark as the bikes rush past them. A tiny boy's staring at them, standing on the steps of a restaurant's backdoor- he's just thrown out the trash. Dwalin looks at him and presses a finger to his lips. The kid swallows, clearly terrified, and doesn't move.

Bilbo feels his heart thump between the wall he's pressed against and his sternum, and he tries to catch his breath but fails. He glances up when he feels someone squeeze his shoulder: Broadbeam's nodding at him, "You all right, Baggins?"

"Ye... yeah, yeah. I'm... fine."

He's not, wide-eyed and nervous. They wait, perfectly quiet, until the last motorcycle's whizzed past them- and Thorin nods to the others, relieved, gun still clutched in his hand. He glances up at G and his eyes spell out  _thank you_ , and he is grateful.

Until the sound of bikes starts again, draws closer and Thorin freezes, the same way everyone else freezes around him. It's a piercing sound that tears through them, and draws closer and closer, clearly they've been spotted. 

(What G pushes aside, not without some guilt, is the thought that something's just happened to R).

Then the bikes stop. And Kili, who's the closest to the corner of the wall that leads back into the hustle and bustle, catches a glimpse of the ten men tearing their way through the crowd.

"Oh shit."

" _Quiet_."

Clearly Thorin curses under his breath after silencing his nephew, and Kili glares at him but doesn't snap back. 

"They may have not seen us yet."

"They  _have_ , Thorin-" is Kili's muttered reply, "they've fucking spotted us." 

And Fili drags his brother back against the wall as a bullet nearly hits him, hand slammed against his chest. He glares at Kee and his green eyes spell out one single word:  _terror_. The tiny boy on the steps rushes back inside.

"We need to move, and  _fast_." is Nori's snarl, and right then G hisses, "Go go go  _go_!" and Bilbo's dragged back into a manic chase, only that now he can hear ten sets of footsteps right behind them, and oh God he can feel his heart beat in his throat, and he wants this to stop. Simply put, he wants this to bloody  _stop_ , it's been enough emotions for a day, for a month, for a lifetime.

 _I survived a gun pointed at my head I deserve a fucking break_ is his last coherent thought before the party of fourteen (G's mysteriously vanished in such a moment of chaos) takes a wild turn at the end of the tight alleyway and they all suddenly find themselves in a courtyard, a flock of chickens clucking and angriedly fluttering and wobbling out of their way.

" _FUCK_!" Thorin yells, aware that they're trapped as the ten other men circle them like wolves circling their pray, guns and chains and nunchucks tight in their hand. What looks like the leader smirks, bike helmet now gone, twirling what's clearly a knife. They could shoot the remaining men except for Thorin, but that would simply be no  _fun_  now, would it?

Nori glances at the knife the other's holding and giggles. 

"Well, _that's a pretty toy you got there_."

And before anyone can even react, or think, he's jumped, with a triumphant scream, onto the other man, own knife burying deep into his neck. The man falls back with a terrified gurgle, and then Rison's tearing the blade out, splitting more skin. He turns around towards the other goons, "All right, who the  _fuck_  wants to go next?" and less than a second afterwards Bofur's left Bilbo's side and is hauling himself at the closest man, taking advantage of his state of utter shock at what's just happened.

There's the distinct crack of a neck snapping.

But then six other men emerge from the shadows, and Thorin thinks there's no end to the fucking worse, and the sight of them wipes the cocky smile off of Broadbeam and Rison's face alike, only to be substituted by a grin that spells one thing: adrenaline pumping through their veins, the taste of blood fresh on their lips. 

"Seems like a fair fight," Dori mutters to himself. "They've got  _guns_." is Dwalin's reply as his brass knuckles make their appearance again.

"Well, so do  _we_ ," the oldest Rison brother replies, MacFundin starting to realize where Nori's coming from, "but we've also got  _Nori_."

Thorin's fist collides with one of the thugs' jaw, Balin pushes Bilbo and Ori to the side, Oakenshield tries to keep Fili and Kili back (and fails, obviously, the brothers fighting back to back, Fili's twin glocks- a present from Dwalin- finally making an appearance). Kili has his own gun, yes, but as Nori's elbow clashes with an opponent's nose, he calls out for Kee, "Hey,  _kid_!" and throws one of his knives at him. He likes the boy, finds his cockiness admirable. Kee grabs the blade out of mid-air, Rison nods to him and goes back to fighting. Nori notices Dwalin's glare and smirks at him.

Ori pushes Bilbo behind him, which is honestly ridiculous, although he's the only one armed between the two. But an army knife is definitely not of that much use as a weapon, as it's proven when a gun's grip hits him square in the face, and his nose is bleeding. Second hit in less than a day: his mouth tastes all sorts of bitter.

"ORI!" both Nori and Dori wail, but before either of them can reach their little brother, Dwalin's dragging the agressor off of the boy, and if there's one good thing about him, is that he's not squirmish when it comes to blood, fists pounding his rival's face. He  _enjoys_  killing, to a degree, he gets  _paid_  to kill people, he's been doing this for the last thirteen years, save for a few breaks. So his senses should be sharp and used to this, but when Thorin looks up from the man he's just knocked out he sees another come up behind his friend, gun ready to fire. His brain clicks immediately, and he yells out the other's name, a " _DWALIN_!" that makes the other turn around briskly and find himself face to face with a barrel _._

 _Oh. I guess this is it_. is his first thought. His second thought is  _what in the everloving fuck_? as the man in front of him's eyes bulge, and familiar fingers tug him by the hair and drag his head back. The blade cut is precise and quick and very,  _very_  painful, slicing through the jugular, and Nori pushes the body aside with a snarl, dirty hands wiping hair out of his face.

Dwalin stares at him, visibly surprised.

" _You just saved my life_."  _After years of trying to kill me_  is irrelevant: they both know why he's baffled.

"MacFundin, don't be fucking ridiculous. You know the rules: only I get to kill you."

(Neither of them mentions this is about the fact he's just saved Ori's life).

And then he's flipping around, and his nails are digging into another man's face. Fili and Kili, on the other hand are putting every little trick they've taught themselves to good use, and more: Fee's a black belt in aikido, Kee's an asshole with a gun and a knife. They're fighting together, watching each other's back and Fili's swallowing his fear as deep as he can, propelled by the idiotic notion that this isn't as bad as it seems.

Although that notion changes when, fuelled by adrenaline, Kili buries Nori's blade in one of the attackers' chest and, simply put,  _freezes_. His brain hits full stop, clicks to a stand-still, ceases all activity.

Kili Abraham Princesson-Oakenshield has just killed a person, and the reality has just hit him with the force of a ten-ton truck. And it might be when he saw the light leave their eyes, or how they whined, for a moment, before collapsing: whatever it is, it's just forced his ears to ring and the world itself slips out of grasp for a moment before someone's grabbing him (it's Fili) and somone else is yelling, "Fee! Get your brother out of here, NOW!", a voice he recognizes as Thorin's raspy growl. His older brother grabs him by the arm, cursing under his breath, and as Thorin watches them rush out of immediate danger, he breaks the nearest man's hand and clutches him by the shirt, shakes him a few times and screams in his face: _  
_

" _Who sent you_? WAS IT SMAUG?  _WAS IT SMAUG_?"

But the man has no time to reply: a bullet hits him square between the eyes, Thorin yelps, jumps back, chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath despite the surprise.  _Snipers_ , again, that reap through the motorcycle riders with blood-chilling, absurd ease: never missing a shot, never hitting anyone who isn't their targets.

Right then, a large white van pops up from a street behind them and rushes up to them.

G lowers the window. Thorin stares at him.

"I advise you hop in. Now."

"But-"

" _All of you_."

Thorin curses under his breath and yells to the others to board the veichle, as he hauls open one of the sliding doors, clambering in. He helps Bilbo up and stares at the fidgeting hacker whilst the others cram in how they can. There's a cut under Baggins' left eye. It stings.

"Couldn't you have gotten here fuckin'  _earlier_?" Nori spats through his teeth at G as he sits down and leans on his knees, trying to catch his breath. His nose is bleeding, and he presses the back of his right hand to stem the flow, before sitting upright and throwing his head back.

He glances over at his youngest brother, "We match."

G hits the accelerator and the tires screech against the pavement. A few minutes later, the wail of a police siren reaches their ears.

"Ah, can't be worse than a Russian prison," Bofur mutters, as he lights himself a cigarette, bruises under his left eye starting to blossom. 

Thorin sighs and runs a hand through his hair, only suddenly marginally aware of the mess they've just all gotten into. His head pounds, but he distracts himself by nudging at Kili, who's somehow managed to regain some colour in his face. But the boy snaps another "I'm  _fine_." before his uncle can even speak.

"Think you can lose 'em?" Dwalin asks the driver, and G simply replies: "I  _intend_ to."

And if there is one common denominator amongst retired and not retired MI6 agents, it's that they really don't know how to fucking drive. At all. Bilbo has to shut his eyes, tight, and swallow saliva in a desperate attempt to keep the contents of his stomach as calm as possible- something that, given the most recent events, is an extremely difficult thing to do. He feels on the brink of collapsing, police sirens growing louder and louder by the minute.

 _I'm gonna end up in prison after all_ , he thinks, as he takes deep, panic attack quenching breaths and tries not to feel every bump and turn the van takes. At least he's alive, and not lying with his brain matter painting a streetcorner. But he's still bloody terrified, and god does he wish this blasted van would simply  _slow the fuck down_. Or stop alltogether.

Which it does, surprisingly, at a certain point. And then someone's opening the van doors again, and Bilbo slightly opens his right eye.

G is standing in front of them. Behind him is what looks very much like an underground parking lot. Thirteen men clamber outside, suspicious as always (some more than others), whilst one of them is just happy the car's stopped. Bilbo Baggins leans back against the white van and breathes hard through his mouth (his throat contracts and for a moment he's terrified he'll vomit), before the sound of a door opening and closing catches his attention (and everyone else's).

The man walking towards them is wearing a pair of khaki dress shorts and a short sleeved, white button up shirt. He looks sweaty and nervous, to say the least, sunglasses balanced on his nose, black hair matted against his temples.

"You  _fucking asshole_ ," Thorin hisses as quietly as he can (G does little but glance over at him): he's recognized him.

It's Peredhel.

Elrond reaches them in a few quick strides, barking out: "You know, G, you need to stop running around like a-" before stopping in his tracks and staring, mouth wide. He seems in a state of utter shock as he whips his sunglasses off to get a better look.

But he's not staring at Thorin. And neither is he staring at Bilbo, although Baggins feels like he is for a split second. Elrond Peredhel is staring, eyes wide and full of utter bewilderment, at three men in particular.

Who, obviously, stare back at him.

Dwalin feels the corners of his mouth quiver in a derisive, hysterical laugh. Bofur barely masks his giggle behind his knuckles. And Nori simply  _grins_ at Peredhel and waves with his free hand.

"Heya, Mister P."

Elrond stares at G, then, looking everything between horrified and absolutely baffled. G simply shrugs his shoulders. Peredhel takes a moment to collect himself.

"You have no _Goddamn idea_ of what you've gotten yourself into, G."


	14. xi

Elrond sighs and stares at G for a few more seconds before realizing that if he's waiting for an explanation or an answer, he's not gonna get one.

Of course he's not going to get one- G has never, ever, ever explained anything he's done to anyone (save maybe for the Lady, but she has the uncanny ability of nearly always knowing what's buzzing in his funny little brain) and now will definitely not be any different. So what Peredhel does, for a start, is roll his eyes. He then tucks his glasses away in his shirt pocket.

 _You're too nice_ , he tells himself- although there's a couple of Scotland Yard interns who would be more than willing to prove the contrary-  _too damn fucking nice to a man who doesn't give a shit about protocol_. 

Elrond glares at the men assembled (his gaze rests on Thorin for a few seconds more, and Oakenshield obviously notices) and then wordlessly turns around and starts walking back towards the door he came in through.

"This way." he hisses, more out of manners than actual kindness, cursing G for having dragged him into this.  _You could've said no_.

(But the Lady would've forced him to help either way).

"Oh, I don't think so."

Peredhel stops in his tracks. He rubs his right index finger and thumb over his already throbbing temples. His sigh is exasperated and loud and when he turns around he's perfectly aware his eyes are watering. The sunglasses magically reappear on his face- he thought he could handle shitty neon lights. He obviously couldn't.

He also thought he could calmly handle G with three hours of sleep and monstrous jet-lag: miraculously so far, so good. Some part of him knows he'll eventually snap (there's  _Rison_  and  _MacFundin_  and  _B_ _roadbeam_ standing about three meters from him fucking  _giggling_ , he should get an award for not choking everyone) since the throbbing in the back of his skull has just reached the brink between "somewhat bearable" and "the heat is about to give me a panic attack".

So Elrond steadies his breathing.

"Longbeard, right? Gloin Longbeard?" he says with a smirk and sees the redhead definitely become nervous and fidgety.  _Bingo_ , he's back in control- it feels nice. " _Right_. Thought I recognized you from somewhere. Now listen. I've just murdered a number of people to get you all out of trouble, and if you don't want my help, there's the door, and you can stumble right back into the Cambodian police's arms, which will be more than happy to choke you all to death. You'd also set in motion a very nasty, very annoying diplomatic incident, and believe me, you wouldn't come out of it even remotely alive."

His smile is so sarcastic even Bofur, Nori and Dwalin stop sniggering.

"Very well then.  _Right this way_."

* * *

The stairs are clanky and made of metal, somewhat very unstable and seem to be going on seemingly forever. They don't, of course: there's a door at a certain point, big large and heavy, bolted. A retinal scan's installed right next to it, and as he leans over to peer into it, Elrond hopes no one will stab him in the back.

No one does, luckily, and the door unlocks with a hiss.

The Rivendell Network is something Bilbo thought, up to now, was a myth. One of those "cool spy movie things" that could never possibly exist in real life. What he knew about TRN was this: set up sometime between the sixties and seventies, it's a highly secretive, highly organized network of agents meant to keep an eye on international happenings. Surprisingly accurate, in fact. 

But the truth about TRN is slightly different: its top-secret code name is I.M.L.A.D.R.I.S. (Intelligence Monitoring the Life of Agents Deployed within the Reinforcement of International Security) and it was set up sometime during the final stages of World War Two as a means of aiding and assisting the British secret service agents scattered throughout the mainland (especially Poland, Germany, Austria and Russia, although agents had also been deployed in Hungary, Estonia, Italy and Spain) with a series of safehouses that gave temporary food and shelter and a direct line of communication with headquarters back home. Virtually unfindable (although it is true that a number of men had been found dead in a few of the houses' bunks- but those houses were immediately and swiftly abandoned leaving no trace of any Secret Service activities) and considered an urban legend right from the start, the Rivendell Network extended to most of the rest of the world (save maybe for the Arctic) throughout the years of the Cold War.

Bilbo stares at the small flat in front of him, turns towards G and mutters, "Is this-"

"TRN? Yes." Elrond flatly answers, trying not to think about the fact that he's breaking probably every single one of the agency's rules by holding open the door for five of Interpol's most wanted, plus friends and family. Without counting, of course, the hacker who nearly broke into MI5 seven years earlier and one of MI6's most renowned and respected senior agents.

On the other hand, he has permission to do this. 

Thorin suspiciously eyes the small apartment: a kitchen, a living room, a door leading to what is probably a tiny office, a hallway. Elrond turns around to face the others, ignores Nori's snigger and snaps: “There's food in the fridge, if you want. Just don't touch anything else, don't steal anything.  _I'll know if you do_ _._ ” and then, to G: “We need to talk.”

“How's your daughter, Peredhel?”

Elrond freezes. He looks at Nori right in the eyes. Rison stares right back.

“ _What the fuck did you just sa_ y?”

“I asked how your daughter was doing.”

G holds his breath. So does Dwalin, all of a sudden. Bofur just smirks. Nori is playing with fire and Nori knows this, and Elrond knows this, because Nori Rison is Nori Rison, cruelty and filth line his marrow and his bones, and consent, in his eyes, is _optional_. Terrifyingly optional.

“ _What_ ** _the fuck_** _did you just say_?”

“Oh you heard me, Peredhel. Loud and clear.”

Nori licks his lips in a gesture Dwalin and Bofur have seen countless of times, a  _come and get me_ , a roll of dice. Rison is spitting into his adversary's face:  _I am not scared, I do not fear you_.

Bilbo's afraid of what might happen. Because Elrond looks insanely calm and also on the verge of splitting: he's forgotten his migraine for a moment, all he wants to do is rip the cocky grin off Rison's face. He clenches his fist: for a second, Bilbo thinks he's going to punch Nori. But then Elrond (eyes still fixed on Rison, voice directed at G) barks, nearly yelling:

“The office.  _NOW_.”

* * *

Elrond slams the door behind him and G and his nails dig into his palms. He unclenches his right hand slowly.

“You realize you've just walked in with my biggest career break yet?”

“ _Elrond_ -”

“Five of Interpol's most wanted? MacFundin? Rison? The  _Longbeard brothers_? Who've funded every single African civil war of the last  _f_ _ifteen years_? _Broadbeam_. You brought Broadbeam straight to my doorstep.”

“I know.”

“We've been hunting him down since 1993.”

Silence.

“You've  _broken twenty-three rules. Twenty-three rules, G_! And you're going to break a million more if you continue to help Oakenshield! Without counting those five, there's Bombur Broadbeam, who's currently _under investigation_ for tax fraud and money laundering, Bifur Broadbeam, who I honestly thought was _dead_ , and-”

“Smaug's capture is of national interest.”

“Sma- Smaug? _This is what you're doing_? SMAUG? We have  _agents_  for that. We have skilled, capable, competent, fucking, AGENTS. We don't need a violent, traumatized  _jerk_  charged with battery and attempted murder running around-”

“I've got this under control.”

“You can't  _control_  Oakenshield. You can't control Rison. You certainly can't control Broadbeam or MacFundin or Longbeard! You can't control a single one of them! And you want to know why? Because even his fucking nephews follow his every word like he's the fucking Messiah! The only one you have _any_ chance of keeping under control is Baggins!”

He stops yelling abruptly as his head screams at him and he needs to drag himself to the chair as quickly as possible: his knees have given out, burned by the pain ramming itself against his skull, a brain that feels on the verge of melting through his nose. The heat is tearing its way through his nerve endings, sticking needles right underneath the synapses and twisting them. Elrond buries his face in his hands and wishes he could whine.

Without saying a word, G steps outside of the small office and comes back a few seconds later with a glass of water, gingerly placing it on the desk in front of Peredhel before shutting the door again. Elrond smiles at him (a  _genuine_  smile, albeit a pained one) and digs in his pocket for a small pillbox.

“Does the Imigran work?”

“More or less.”

He knows he's taking it too late for it to have an actual, proper effect (stupidly, Elrond didn't take the meds when the migraine started, convinced for the millionth worthless time it was going to be a  _light_  one, that he could've been able to handle it, that there was no need to fill himself up with chemicals) but maybe he can get at least some pain relief.

What he actually needs is sleep, which is a luxury that he can't afford right now.

“I didn't think you knew Baggins.” G continues. “We hushed that one up pretty well.”

“ _Of course I_ _know_ Baggins. He broke into MI5 seven Goddamn years ago.”

“ _Nearly_  broke into MI5.”

“Well _I_ nearly caught Rison seven years ago.” Elrond murmurs, sounding more defeated than he'd like. “I nearly caught all three of them.”

G says nothing.

“Me and Greenleaf. We were  _this close_  to catching them.”

“...I believe you know what happened to the last agent who got  _this close_  to catching Rison and Broadbeam?”

He doesn't mention Dwalin because Dwalin has enough of a moral compass to not do these things. Which doesn't mean he doesn't know about them anyway and doesn't move a finger to stop them.

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

“Her fiancee got her back piece by piece in the mail over-”

“ _Over Christmas holidays._   _I know_. I know. We all know.”

“So I guess you should count yourself lucky.”

Elrond stares at G for a second, trying to blink the pain away.

“G, Rison is a _psychopath_ , and last time I checked his medication of choice was cocaine. You're walking around with Goddamn ticking time bombs.”

* * *

Bilbo fidgets around and frowns: the cut on his cheek is stinging more than he'd like it to. He stares at his fingers, quiet: his ears are still ringing and his hands are still shaking, and he wishes both things would stop. They don't, but what does happen is Bofur walking over to the sofa he's sitting on and handing him a plate: there's a sandwich on it, a ham and cheese one Bombur's just thrown together with what he could find in the small fridge. Somewhere beyond his nose, there's the sound of Nori's balisong clacking away, people talking. Thorin's smoking close to the open window, shoulders hunched over, quiet (if Dwalin could, he'd crack that skull open like he used to do, peer inside of it. But he hasn't had the permission to be let in in a long, long time), his nephews have trotted off God knows where.

Bilbo furrows his brow at the plate. “Thank- thank you?” he awkwardly mutters as he takes it, staring at the sandwich with much more bewilderment than he knows he should show. But after all, a gesture so normal feels somewhat wrong right now. Bofur shrugs in reply and sits next to him, sipping on what looks like black coffee.

“You all right, Baggins?”

“I'm... all right.”

Bofur smirks and nods, apparently satisfied with that answer. He's not a man of many words. Nevertheless, Bilbo attempts to strike up a conversation.

“So you... know Nori?”

Bofur stares at him for a second, unblinking.

“In a way. We worked together, for a while.”

He takes his coat off and hangs it on the back of the chair, revealing a thin old t-shirt advertising a seafood restaurant in Sanford, Maine, USA. He even takes his hat off and then lights himself a self-rolled cigarette.

“And what did you... do?”

“We mainly killed people for hire.”

Bilbo blinks.

He tries to think of an answer, quickly finding out he can't come up with any. Although Fili and Kili had both warned him about Bofur, it still comes as an uncomfortable shock. He needs to remind himself of who he's traveling with, and all of a sudden there's a flash of Bofur calmly stepping forward and twisting a man's head counter-clockwise, the sound of bones breaking much too sharp.

Bofur is the type of person who can kill without even blinking an eye- but he's also just offered Bilbo a sandwich and he's one of the few who actually looks like he manages to somewhat stand Baggins' awkward presence, which means Bilbo's decided to ignore his eccentricities in favor of focusing on the few nice things he's done. Baggins starts munching on the food, when suddenly the obnoxious sound of Nori's butterfly knife tricks comes to a halt.

And before he knows it, a blade flies across the room and buries itself in the wall with a _thump_ about three inches above Bilbo's head, who chokes on his sandwich and manages to whimper at the same time, looking in an absolutely terrified way at Nori, who just sniggers in his direction.

“Rison, _how dare you_.”

It's Bofur.

“There's no need to scare mister Baggins like that.”

He pulls the knife out of the wall and throws it at the other. Nori catches it, fevered eyes darting from Baggins to Bofur and back, before he mutters something about cats playing with their food before they eat it. He then turns around to trot back to the kitchen and grab another beer, which is when Bilbo notices the scar (Nori's finally taken his gloves, coat and shirt off, leaving on nothing but tight jeans and a grey undershirt, which he undoubtedly picked for the fact that they both stick to his lean, muscular body like a second skin, showing off everything there is to show): it runs from his left shoulder and slopes downward, as if someone had tried to stab his heart with scarce success and tried to correct his mistake.

Nori turns around when he's gotten hold of another beer, Bilbo looks away, Rison smirks, Rison glances at Dwalin, Dwalin ignores him, Rison snaps:

“You're curious about the scar, aren't you, Baggins?”

Before Bilbo can answer, Nori's already started talking. He doesn't care if Baggins wants to hear his story or not, because all he cares about is the story itself, and being able to tell it again and again and again. And besides, now he has an audience he knows he will provoke: and if there's one thing Nori loves, it's pissing people off. Or, in this case, pissing Thorin Oakenshield off until he finally snaps, which he hopes will happen relatively soon- who doesn't love to watch the man who thinks he can control everything lose control even over himself?

So Rison says: “It was given to me by him.” and points at Dwalin, finally getting his attention. MacFundin looks up from the gun he's been cleaning, realizes it's Nori talking, and rolls his eyes. The one person who keeps on staring at Rison, though, is Thorin.

“You see that scar Dwalin's got on the right side of his mouth?”

Bilbo hadn't noticed it before, but now he does: starting from where the lips meet, creeping for about an inch and a half up his cheek, towards the ear, it's thin and white and ragged. Dwalin stares at him staring before his grey-blue eyes move away.

“You... gave it to him?” Bilbo dares to ask.

“Bingo.” Nori's tongue darts over his teeth in a quick manic gesture.

“Now, you know what a Glasgow smile is, don't you?”

“More. Or less.” is Bilbo's reply, who really, really, _really_ isn't in the mood for Nori's undoubtedly vivid and sadistic description of what exactly a Glasgow smile is, how it's done, and just _how much_ he enjoys giving one.

“Well, that's what I _tried_ to give him. But, you see, MacFundin likes it _rough_.”

His gaze moves to Dwalin and his smirk widens. Dwalin stares at him blankly.

Nori's expression changes into a mock one of sadness and disappointment. “So he stabbed me in the _back_.” His voice quivers on the brink of fake tears, and then his snigger comes back and he laughs at Dwalin's unresponsiveness. Someone (he knows exactly who) is staring at the back of his head, cigarette clenched between his right index and middle finger and if looks could kill, he'd have been murdered by a pair of blue eyes long ago. Rison opens his mouth, ready to spat some more venom, when suddenly the door to the small office opens, and Elrond steps outside. His eyes are bloodshot: he looks beyond exhausted (the pain is starting to take its toll).

“Oakenshield, G said you had something to show me.”

Thorin clenches his jaw even harder (Bilbo wonders how it hasn't broken yet) and glares at the white-haired man standing behind Peredhel.

“...maybe.” he snarls.

* * *

“Should you really be doing this?”

“The computer's _here_ and I doubt they're gonna mind if I use it for ten minutes.”

Kili frowns at his brother from where he's lying down on the bed and sighs loudly. Fili's fidgeting with the Macbook he found sitting on the small bedroom's desk- it turns out it's Elrond's, and he left it switched on.

Fili signs into Skype and his lips curl in a small smile. Kili rolls his eyes at this, “I'm going to go and get another sandwich,” he announces to no one, as Fili's too busy scrolling down his list of contacts. He realizes he's humming to himself as he clicks on _Becca_ , the icon signs “do not disturb” but he doubts she'll mind (too much) and the call window appears. Skype starts ringing, he absent-mindedly fiddles with a strand of hair that's fallen in front of his eyes and thinks he should dread it again. Fili then presses the heels of his palms against his eyes and sighs: jet- lag and the day's emotions have just started hitting him, he's exhausted. And Kili scares him: his younger brother's slid somewhere where emotions can't reach him, the same way Thorin does (they're so similar it honestly pisses him off), and is showing off an emptiness he's never seen before, or at least he's only seen in himself. But Fili has untreated depression.

Kili's supposed to be the happy, chirpy, twenty year old that doesn't give a fuck- instead he's got anger issues and abandonment issues and an alcohol addiction ready to take over his life, and God bless the fact that Rebecca, Ori and his older brother are there to keep an eye on him, although Fili feels like he's failed him anyway.

Fee snaps his eyes shut and frowns at himself and at his thoughts: too deep for the hour, too big, too scary. He feels like he's crumbling under the sadness again (flashes of a seventeen year old self, tear filled and red-eyed, screaming at his mother “I DIDN'T _ASK FOR THIS RESPONSIBILITY_!” rear their ugly head) but suddenly, the call gets picked up.

“You do realize it's seven, fucking, AM, right?”

A familiar Australian accent distracts him from his thoughts, and Fili snaps his head up and opens his eyes to arched perfect eyebrows and turquoise dreadlocks. Rebecca's frowning at him, stark blue hair standing out against her dark skin.

Fili can't help but smile at her.

“Did I wake you up?”

“No, I have yoga class anyway.”

Battlecross can be heard playing in the background. Fili's fully aware his idiotic grin has just gotten even wider, and she smirks at it. It's adorable, honestly. He looks like an overly excited lion cub.

“Is that... my shirt?”

“Oh?” She pulls onto it to check it, Darth Vader's mask stares back at her, “Yeah, I guess it is.”

“How utterly revoltingly romantic of you, Johnson.”

Rebecca narrows her eyes, “It was the only clean thing I had.”

“And you're totally not wearing it because it smells of me?”

“...No? It was literally the only clean thing I had?”

He tries to keep a straight face, but she's the one who giggles first, burying her face in her hands to hide it. Fili giggles along with her, and then she bites her lower lip.

“So how's your uncle's business trip going? _Hold up_.” she says before disappearing under the desk for a few seconds, remerging holding a pair of black and beige hemp manakees. She slips them on through her gauged ears and smiles at him again, dark eyes shining bright. Fili glances awkwardly around, “It's going... good. We're all cool. Kili's disappeared somewhere to get a sandwich.”

“Where are you?”

“A... friend's.”

He prays his utter inability to lie doesn't come across on Skype, too. Or that if she realizes he's lying, she just doesn't point it out. Rebecca falls silent for a moment, manicured, tattooed fingers tapping against the desk.

“Is everything okay?”

She'd like to point out how they're technically about to be engaged and he still lies to her like a five year old would lie to his mother. But she decides against it, mainly because right now she doesn't have the actual time to sit down and argue. Also, arguing over Skype always feels like something a bit dumb. You're yelling “YOU'RE A FUCKING JERK!” to a computer screen- it takes the human and emotional aspect out of it.

Rebecca blinks a few times, before bluntly saying: “Your mother knows.”

Fee chokes on his spit, “She _what_?”

“She knows.”

“ _HOW_?”

Rebecca licks her lips, raises her eyebrows incredulously and then blurts out: “Because I didn't _order a drink_ last night when she invited me out for dinner.”

Fili starts laughing hysterically and finds it nearly impossible to stop. Rebecca rolls her eyes, “Shut up.”

“I'm sorry,” he wheezes.

“SHUT UP.”

He tries to stop laughing. He fails.

“What's so funny?” Kili asks as he steps inside, plate in one hand, bottle of beer in the other.

“ _Nothing_.” the pair automatically snap, nearly in perfect unison (as synchronized as an overseas, international video call will let them). Fili still grins at Rebecca, who still frowns at him.

“You _didn't order a drink_ and my mother _guessed something's up_. I believe this says. A lot about our lifestyle.”

She frowns.

“What was I supposed to do? _Order it_?”

“I mean. No. Nononono. You did the right thing, of course. I just. Find this hilarious.”

Kili stares at his brother and at the computer suspiciously for a few seconds and then nods at the floor, “ _Right_. Hey Bex.”

She waves and then stands up, revealing tattoos making their way up her thighs, front and back-- and the fact that she's not wearing any pants. Kili clears his throat and glances to the side, stares intently at the wallpaper.

“So anyway,” Becca yells over the music from across the room as she hops on one foot and slips herself into a skirt that billows around her ankles (she turns her back to the webcam as she changes her shirt, tattooed shoulders and back exposed for both of them to see- Fili grabs a pillow off the bed and rams it in Kili's face, just to be safe) “when you come back, I was thinking-”

But her train of thought is interrupted by Dwalin, who peers into the room.

“Thought I'd heard a voice I recognized.”

Rebecca's face lights up in a gleeful smile and she rushes back to the computer.

“Well hello there, madam.” MacFundin says, as Fili sighs (albeit smiling) and moves to make room for him.

“MacFundin, _sir_. A pleasure to see you.”

“How are you, baby girl?”

“On my way to yoga.”

“Are these two gentlemen bothering you?”

“The blond is an _obnoxiou_ s, _insufferable_ idiot, sir.”

Fili frowns at her playfully, and Rebecca winks and sticks her tongue out. Kili finds all of this so unbearably cute and sappy he's happy he has a sandwich to concentrate on. Becca glances at the monitor clock and whines, “I'm late, Jesus fuck.”

“I'm sorry,” Fee quickly says, she shakes her head, “Not your fault, lion cub. I need to run though.”

She blows a kiss at the blond and smiles- it's a smile reserved just for Fee, something bright and pure and loving the twenty-eight year old (three years his senior) shows only to him, something special. She turns to pick up her gym bag, “I love you.” “Love you too, Nala.” and then hangs up. Fili feels Dwalin's eyes trace their way along his face, and is fully aware he's blushing and grinning. Dwalin feels something very similar to “ _my nephew's all grown up_ ” stir in his chest.

“You're adorable together.”

“I still honestly think she's secretly in love with you,” is Fili's joking reply.

Dwalin giggles and ruffles Fili's hair, happy to have gotten away for a few seconds from Nori's sliminess and Thorin's tension and rage, back with two boys he'd lost track of: they've grown up too scarily fast.

“What's going on?” Kili asks between bites.

“Peredhel's managed to crack open the key.”

MacFundin omits mentioning how Elrond opened the key, stared at its contents for five full minutes and then quietly murmured, not sure whether to start laughing or ramming his head against the wall out of desperation, “How. How does your family have access to this?”

Thorin had simply shrugged.

“And?” it's Fili.

“And Smaug's been in London this whole time.”

Kili giggles, pressing a hand to his mouth to stifle his sarcastic laugh, “I'm sorry. _Thorin must be furious_.”

“He is. He said to pack your bags and get your shit together, we're leaving ASAP.” Dwalin adds, hauling himself up from the crouching position he'd put himself in to see the computer monitor better. Fili signs out of Skype and swallows. All of a sudden, he looks infinitely more nervous.

“What was the thing Becca was talking about?” Kili asks him as he follows Dwalin out of the room.

“What thing?”

“The drink thing.”

“ _None of your business_ ,” Fili snaps, and ends the conversation.

* * *

Elrond stares at G from across the desk. He doesn't know where to start.

“That was all classified information.” he mutters.

They're alone now, finally everyone's left: they've left less of a mess than what Peredhel expected, but a messy home is literally the last thing he has to worry about right now.

“Thrain Oakenshield had access to classified information he stuck in a fucking USB key protected by government-level security not even the man who broke all of MI5's systems could crack in. _How_?”

He's raising his voice despite himself.

G shrugs.

“You don't fucking shrug this off.”

“After all, he was working on A.R.K.E.N.S.T.O.N.E.”

Elrond's fully aware his hands are shaking, “This is _entirely fucking different_. This is. Oh God, he could've compromised national security. He _is_ compromising national security. Do you realize how _dangerous_ someone like Smaug is? The _resources_ he has?”

“Yes.”

Elrond runs both his hands through his hair, “Then _why_ are you doing this?”

But before G can answer, Elrond's pager starts bleeping. He frowns at it, G frowns at him.

“You _didn't_ -”

“I'm sorry, I had to call her. I wrote her the minute you asked me to snipe those men. I'm sorry.”

G sighs at him, Elrond shrugs, looking visibly mortified.

“I can't let you do this, G. You'll get everyone killed. Including yourself.”

* * *

There's a helicopter landing on the top of the building, and G and Elrond are both staring at it, sunglasses protecting them from the Cambodian sun. The chopper is black, anonymous, and lands smoothly on the flat roof. The sound is unbearably loud as the blades start progressively slowing down.

A woman steps out of the helicopter as they come to a full halt: dressed in white, gray hair cut in an elegant bob, Armani sunglasses covering most of her face. She looks older than fifty, but younger than seventy: next to her, a blond man is holding a briefcase and an iPad, talking to her.

“I'm trying to get a connection with London but it's proving to be difficult, ma'am. WiFi isn't so great here, ma'am. And Mister S isn't so good with our protected lines of communication, I'm afraid. The technology is a bit too... advanced.”

“Give me a moment, Haldir,” she sighs, before eyeing G and slipping her sunglasses off. He stares at her, arms crossed.

“It's been too long, G.”

“Days are bleak without you.” he elegantly replies, smiling. She smiles back and widens her arms, and he grabs her into a hug: it's the kind of embrace you reserve for very old, very precious friends. She places both hands on his shoulders.

“How's Stuart?”

“Wonderful as always. How's Celeborn?”

“Busy, but his begonias are doing just fine.”

Elrond stares at both of them for a moment, cringing. How dare he think she would've  _ever_ been mad at G? Try to punish him? 

The Lady smiles and turns to Elrond, who begrudgingly bows his head at her and attempts a smile that turns into a grimace. There's something terrifying about working for your ex wife's mother, something that haunts a man to the core.

The Lady cordially smiles back at him, before Haldir interjects, “Ma'am, we have a connection.”

“Ah, splendid.” she exclaims, and Elrond shows her the way back inside.

They sit at the dining room table: G on one end, the iPad (which is playing a shaky video feed that, for now, shows nothing but an office chair, some plants, and a window overlooking the London skyline) at the other, Elrond leaning against the shiny mahogany, the Lady sitting, legs elegantly crossed, on a sofa. O'Rien is still fiddling with the tablet. The image shakes for a few seconds, there's the sound of movement on the other side, and then a pair of pale, long fingers fix the webcam as an elderly man takes his place in the leather office chair.

Haldir quickly moves to the back of the room, quietly taking everything in.

“Forgive my lateness, my new assistant isn't familiar with our security systems yet. It's fine, Grima, you can leave us.”

The hands stop fiddling for a moment, before disappearing entirely.

The man in the chair, who happens to be S- alternatively known as the most powerful man in all of Great Britain (yes, even more powerful than the Prime Minister) leans over, squinting, “Where's G?”

G does a little wave, “I'm here, sir.”

S frowns at him and sighs loudly, “I hope you realize what you've been doing, G. I hope you realize we've _noticed_ what you're doing.”

The other man swallows and smiles, “I've simply been doing what I believe is right, sir. Oakenshield's given us the perfect chance to track down and capture Smaug.”

The Lady stands up and starts pacing, circling the table, “You've been tracking down Smaug for a while now, haven't you? Ever since Broadbeam contacted him?”

“Ever since he killed our men in Hong Kong.”

“We lose men _every day_. It's part of the job.” Elrond interjects, “but what you've been doing could be considered _treason_.”

“Really? What have I done?”

“How did Oakenshield gain access to _classified_ information? Info about Smaug? _Azog_?”

G clenches his jaw and tells the truth: “I have nothing to do with that.”

“Many more lives are at stake because of your actions, G! You've gotten the government _neck deep into this_ \- Smaug isn't one of your little drug lords. He-”

“He owes allegiance to no one, Peredhel. And is therefore infinitely more _dangerous_. What if NeCRO put their hands on A.R.K.E.N.S.T.O.N.E?”

S furrows his brow half a world away and then scoffs, “ _NeCRO_? NeCRO's been long eradicated. Along with Angmar. NeCRO has nothing to do with this.”

“R thinks differently.”

“...R? You've contacted R?”

G nods quickly and digs through his pocket, pulling out the floppy disk.

Elrond stares at it. “That's a floppy disk.” he mutters, as if it's the last tragedy of a very long and tiring day. “A floppy disk. What. Exactly am I supposed to do with a floppy disk?”

Haldir quietly steps forward and says, “I can see if I can find an old computer, sir?”

Elrond's head briskly turns around and he nods, exasperated, at the Lady's PA. “Yeah. Yeah, you go do that.”

“Wait.” S snaps. Four heads turn towards the iPad. “Does it matter?” he asks.

“It does.” G hisses, and the Lady smirks, unseen.

“G, R hasn't been active for over twenty years. He's an addict, he had LSD put in his coffee. Of all people I would trust, R isn't certainly one of-”

“He's been breaking into our highly secured systems for the past year and a half, S, and we all know that there's just one other person who ever even got that close. So whatever he's found, I think it's pretty important.”

Elrond stares at G, then at Haldir, then at the iPad, then at the Lady, who's staring at everyone with a bemused grin on her face, the kind of look a woman who's seen too much and done too much would have. Smaug is dangerous, yes, but NeCRO is more dangerous. And if G says there's something going on, he's watched her back and taken enough bullets for her to know to trust him. (Which is why, in all honesty, she considers both Peredhel and S a bit of an idiot- although Elrond does have the fact that he broke her daughter's heart as a not so happy incentive). Elrond swallows, shuts his eyes for a moment.

“All right, all right all right all right. Supposing that what R found... makes sense. What then?”

“Nothing that R's found makes sense because what R's found is _impossible_.” is S' stern reply. G stares at the iPad blankly and sighs loudly, glancing over at the Lady. Haldir's still standing in the middle of the room, and his boss quickly snaps at him, “Go find the computer, O'Rien.”

“Something is happening, S. Something none of us can control, not even if we wanted to. Something's moving in London and in Paris and in New York and everywhere else. Something- _someone_ is sitting back, and is waiting to unleash mayhem and it is our _duty_ to try and stop it- it's our _job_ , that's what we were _put here for_.”

G's placed both hands on the table and suddenly his right hand twists into a fist. He's nervous.

“Ma'am?” a shy voice asks. Haldir has just come back, carrying an extremely old Windows laptop. Elrond blinks at him, “Where did you find that?”

“It was in an old closet, sir.”

“Well then,” Haldir's boss chimes in as she takes a seat at the table and grins directly into the iPad's webcam, “shall we see what all the fuss is about?”

* * *
    
    
      **MANCHESTER**  
    
    **UNITED KINGDOM**  
    
    **1998**
    

All right. The hunt's fucking over, babyface.”

His voice rings out in the empty basement, water dripping from pipes the only reply Dwalin gets. He stops to catch his breath, gun clenched in one hand as he wipes the back of his mouth.

He counts his heartbeats as he breathes. The person he's been chasing isn't far ahead: tall, long auburn hair tied in a braid, gloved hands and a voice that sounded oddly familiar- he knows he's heard it once before, but he can't place when or where precisely.

“You know, I honestly didn't think you were _this_ stupid.”

The voice comes from behind him, sticky-sweet and venomous. Dwalin freezes and glances behind him towards the darkness. Footsteps behind him, a soft chuckle.

“But then I tell myself, _this guy's a Scotsman_.”

And before Dwalin can even think, or realize what's going on, what feels a lot like thin metal wire is being rammed against his throat, and he's getting dragged back, a wet, horrible sound escaping his clenched teeth as he chokes. Panic is the first thing that settles in. And panic is sometimes the right thing to have.

Dwalin lurches backwards, his attacker's chest rammed against his back, and his hands scramble for purchase on him, although they fail. Luckily, there's a wall a few feet back, and Dwalin manages to slam the other against it with as much force as his oxygen-deprived body can let him: Nori Rison (Cockney accent and a pretty face that's served him more than once to get what he wanted) feels the air get knocked out of his lungs as his hands let go abruptly of the wire he's using to choke MacFundin, and Dwalin manages to lurch forward. It's a small, seconds-long victory, but it's enough time for Dwalin to turn around: too bad that his attacker is quicker, and Nori throws himself against him with a snarl. Dwalin's back connects with pipes crawling across the wall behind him, he screams because God does it hurt: warm water flows through them, boiling metal against his back, they snap and steam wheezes out, he feels fingers around his throat before he can even blink. Rison is lighter and quicker and younger, a marten with teeth bared and sharp nails, but Dwalin grabs his neck too, knee connecting to Nori's stomach, who screams and his eyes burn with madness and violence. And then they're on the floor, Rison on his back and MacFundin topping him, strong tattooed hands crushing his windpipe. Nori wheezes and smirks as he's being choked (he's always loved a good game), and then his shaking hands pull something out of his boot, not without a struggle. And, honestly, Dwalin should've seen it coming, as a knife nearly slices his ear off. He moves back just in time, letting go of Nori in the process, giving him the bloody, Goddamn advantage, and with a snarl, Rison is literally _sinking his teeth_ into Dwalin's face and Dwalin is screaming at him- and Nori manages to break skin as his tongue licks over the shell of MacFundin's now-bleeding ear, a pleased little whine escaping his lips. MacFundin tries to scramble away, but Nori rocks forward- and it's Dwalin's turn to be pinned to the floor, Rison's hair escaping a now wrecked braid, falling in front of his eyes. The ring of his own head slamming against the concrete makes his vision swim for a moment, he's somewhat aware of Rison's knees keeping him still, weighing him down. Then Nori's gloved hands are grabbing at his lower jaw and yanking it open: what Dwalin feels, then, is the metallic taste of a blade pressed against the side of his mouth, sharp jabs of pain as the edge of the knife scrapes against it.

“You feel this, MacFundin?” Nori leans close to Dwalin's ear, red hot breath still laced with excited pants. _“Good_.”

Dwalin can hear his small giggle, too. And then Nori starts cutting, and all Dwalin is aware of is the pain of a blade slicing through skin.

 _Don't scream don't scream don't scream_ his mind tells him, _don't scream or you're dead_. And he doesn't, although God he wishes he could, and the pain melts like butter and flows through his bones in a way that he wishes he could escape, every inch of his skin burning, a mixture of Hellfire and human-crafted horror poured down his throat, Rison's hysterical laughter. He can taste his own blood.

Until Dwalin realizes that Nori's second knife's slipped out of his boot, and that he has just enough movement, just enough breath, just enough willpower to grab it. And slam it into Rison's shoulder as hard as he can let himself.

He drags it through Nori's flesh the minute he realizes he hasn't hit his back, or his heart: Rison lets go of him abruptly with a pained, desperate rattle, giving a bleeding Dwalin enough time to push him off and haul himself to his feet, flinching, head spinning. He leans against the wall and breathes, hard, swallowing back tears and running shaking fingers to his bleeding face. A blood-clogged, wet breath distracts him.

Nori's rolling on the filthy floor, blood pouring out of his back, a drizzle creeping out of his lips which bare his teeth in a spiteful, hateful snarl the moment he lays agonizing eyes on Dwalin. MacFundin stares at him for a few seconds, hand pressed to his wound and he grimaces, Rison's hands curling into talons as he coughs more blood, delirious smirk twisting his frown upside down. He drags himself for a few inches before collapsing again, eyes bulging.

As Dwalin crawls his way out, there's three sounds he leaves behind him: water dripping, steam flowing, and the admiring, quiet giggle of a man who's not just ready to die yet.


	15. xii


      **LONDON**  
    
    **THE LADY'S HOME**  
    
    **4 PM**  
    
    **AUGUST TWENTY-THIRD**
    

Roses are beautiful, this time of year. Of course, you need to be lucky enough to have them bloom, but there's a delicate quality to them, an ethereal breaking of the rules that fills one with both wonder and the gut feeling that you're doing something illegal, wrong, forbidden. The kind of things that certain garden gloved hands have dabbled in for forty years. They've killed, they've maimed, they've punched, they've tortured. They've handled top secret infromation and they've toppled regimes and thwarted rebellions. They've done dirty deeds, but never dirt cheap. 

Right now, the hands of one of the most dangerous and powerful women in the world are trimming climbing rose bushes.

She sighs loudly, sitting back on her haunches. 

"More ice tea, darling?"

G shakes his head, "Although I would love a gin and tonic."

The Lady smiles at his troubled face and stands up, setting her scissors aside.

"Haldir?" she calls towards the house. A blond head appears through the patio door. 

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Fetch G a gin and tonic, darling."

"Just as soon as I finish these calls, ma'am."

"Good boy."

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am."

She turns back around once O'Rien's disappeared inside. G's sitting at a small plastic table, absent-mindedly tapping against a glass of ice tea, half empty.

"So." the Lady says, snipping away at dead branches, "Elrond seems more than a little panicked over your antics."

"Hysterical."

" _Pardon me_?"

"Peredhel's hysterical."

"He seems convinced you're the one who gave Oakenshield the information."

She looks at him from over her reading glasses, "but we both know that isn't possibly true," snips away at two dead buds, " _is it_?"

G stares at her with an indiscernible smile he usually reserves only for burly men who have him chained to a metal table and are utterly convinced that this means they have the upper hand. 

"Thorin's father gave me the key once when I was supervising his work on A.R.K.E.N.S.T.O.N.E.. I suspect he knew someone was after him."

" _Smaug_?"

"No. God, no- Smaug is nothing but a chesspiece. I'm talking about the players."

"People like  _us_."

"People like Sauron."

Suddenly, Haldir scuttles over holding an ice cold glass: G takes it with a small nod.

"Thank you, Haldir."

"Not a problem, sir. Will that be all, ma'am?"

The Lady nods and waves him away. She stops to stare at her husband's freshly planted snapdragons and nibbles on her lower lip. In G's eyes for a moment she is no longer an experienced assassin but the twenty-three year old agent who's just uncovered one of the greatest Soviet moles known to the British government: for a moment it is 1969 again and he feels part of the deadliest, most invincible duo on the planet. He is twenty and he's on top of the world, he is sixty-two and he is sitting in a perfectly kept garden across a woman whose pants are dirty with dirt, who has been his rock and his safe haven ever since they rammed his head in a toilet at MI6 headquarters and hissed in his ear "You a faggot, Mithrandir?" and she'd walked in because the ladies' room had been out of order and she'd made them wish they'd never dared touch him with a quaint little smile and a few well-placed words.

But right now she is a woman with a troubled look on her face and the faintest ghost of fear buried deep under her pupils.

"You're working with a man wanted for treason. The head of Scotland Yard suspects you've stolen top-secret infromation and shared it with one of the richest men in the country, now deceased. And now, to help his son get back one of our highest-grade security systems, you enlist the help of Bilbo Baggins. A Tesco employee. Who  _used_  to be a hacker. Who I nearly personally arrested. I'd ask you why, but I doubt I'd get a straight answer."

"Because they're all jerks."

" _Jerks_?"

"Rich, manipulative, egotistical, arrogant bastards. Just like you and me."

He wrestles a smile from her tight nervous lips.

"And so he's what?" she asks as she sits across from him, slipping her hands out of the heavy, dirt caked gloves, "a breath of fresh air?"

"A reminder that what we fight for is worth it."

Her bitter little smirk is a symphony of utter cynism. But between the two, he was always the one most inclined to hope no matter what.

"Are you scared, G? Of what R has found?"

Her question catches him off guard and he blinks for a moment, stares at her and the Lady is utterly serious in her inquisitiveness, a cold calculating spy that knows when to wrestle for answers and when to seduce. There is a hint of maliciousness in what she's just asked: she feels like playing with him for a moment, the same way a friend would lock another one's head in a death-grip and then let go, the both of them laughing. But their weapons are sharper and smarter and slicker.

So G's reply is quick and able: "Are  _you_?"

She simply laughs and shrugs it off her sixty-five year old shoulders. He knows her well enough to know she is.

* * *

" _Here_?"

"The key said so."

Balin eyes Dwalin who looks empty and troubled, and a million questions that have been bouncing in his brain ever since his little brother showed up one evening thirteen years earlier after having disappeared for two threaten to tumble out. After all, he never asked a thing (which doesn't mean he didn't care) - but:

"Did you really?"

"Really what?"

"Stab that man."

Dwalin stares at him with tired eyes full of wonder and relief, "He wouldn't lie about something he can brag about."

The building in front of them towers with the weight of a thousand looming London-grey winters and the footsteps of the rich men who crawl around inside of it and laugh at stock markets and at their much too young lovers (they call them  _whores_ , those girls and secret-keeping boys who trick fat old white men into believing they're kings of the world). He knows that a few blocks down another building coils and hisses against the city sky: Balin's walked its steps every morning at seven AM and every evening at five PM for the last forty years, save for weekends and holidays, and looking at his brother now, at his best friend's son who's dragged them all into his very own personal brand of something that will inevitably brew into madness... he feels old.

"So how do we get in past security?" Fili asks. 

Bilbo awkwardly chimes in: "Back. Uh. Backdoor. I can break into the system and neutralize it. At least long enough for you to get in. I  _will_  need someone to watch my back, though." 

The last bit almost sounds like an apology (in a way, it is)- Bilbo's half thinking of helping them this last time (he figures the security systems will be basic enough for him to chug through them relatively easily) and then heading back home: his mind feels very ready to shut down completely. He's tired and he's nervous and he's sad (what else is new), because he's physically and emotionally exhausted, because he thought he'd finally found his place in a relatively normal life, because he feels like a bloody burden. He can't shoot, he can't fight, he doesn't even have a gun. So when Bofur smirks at him a little to signal that he'll be more than happy to watch his back, he feels better, but not entirely. Thorin stares at him with his usual bitterness ready to sink its teeth in.

Which is when his cellphone decides to start ringing.

For the first few seconds, Oakenshield stares at it until the ringtone grtis against his ears, a stupid three note tune that goes nowhere and means nothing, and the sender's number's blocked either way. Which adds to the uneasiness.

Thorin obviously answers.

"G, where the fu--"

"Oh, don't insult me like  _that_."

It's a voice he doesn't recognise but it sinks into his brain in a smoot painful movement that if you could see would remind you of the tip of a needle sinking in an inch too close to your eyeball, and stay there, and someone would be holding you perfectly still and threatening to pull it out and force it directly into your iris if you weren't going to be a good boy.

"How are you, Thorin?"

" _Who the fuck is this_?"

"Oh, always so  _rude_. I asked you a question. You should answer. How  _are_  you, Thorin?"

Thorin clenches his jaw. There's an annoyed sigh hissed into his ear and whoever's on the other side waits for a few moments for an answer Thorin's too proud (and paranoid) to give. Oakensheild feels everyone's eyes on him, sticking to his skin the same way it had happened when he'd walked into work with both wrists tightly bandaged, and he'd felt Father's disgusted, disapproving look like a kick to the throat (" _Don't you dare disappoint me like Frerin_.") only that this time they're curious, they're maybe a little scared.

"Very well. Since you're being a spoiled little brat, I guess I'll have to do all the talking, won't I?"

A pause. 

Thorin knows exactly who this is.

"By the way, my compliments to Rison. He's got quite the hang of my favourite kind of thi-"

Thorin snaps the phonecall to an end and stuffs the phone back into his pocket. He licks his lips and bares his teeth and turns back to face Bilbo, spitting out: " _Lead the way_ , Baggins." before anyone can even dare ask a question. His movements are brisk and his jaw is clenched. Bilbo stares at him for a moment before scuttling by Ori and Gloin and furrowing his brow at the lockpad (he doesn't mention how he's surprised no one's shot them all through the forehead yet).

"Does anyone have a mobile phone?"

Stupid rhethorical question, and his voice scares him: it's so sharp, so professional, so matter-of-factly. Kili quickly offers his, and Baggins weighs it in his hand for a second as he thinks about the fact that it costs more than he could possibly imagine. But then his mind is back to the cables he's remembered (for once) to carry around with him, trinkets he either managed to save or just rebought after the "incident". Bilbo swallows, breathing steadily to concentrate, knowing everyone's looking at him, knowing the phone call is looming over them.

 _Here we go again_.

The door opens on its own with the sound of automated bolts being unlocked from the inside.

Bilbo stares at it, then turns to Thorin, who looks as at loss as he does. Bofur and Dwalin are the first who spring into action, quickly stepping past the hacker and checking if it's safe. If the coast is clear, if it's a trap.

It isn't. The hallway is white, lit by neon lights and eerily, horrendously empty.

 _The phone rings again_.

Thorin lets it ring unti Balin shoots him a look- the old man's starting to get the feeling it's a  _good_  thing Thorin's answering those calls. Something tells him it's what's currently keeping them still alive.

A tut, the same honey voice laced with cyanide: "Rude  _again_ , Thorin. Mummy would be  _so_  disappointed."

Oakenshield is now clutching the phone so tight Bilbo's afraid of what might happen next. MacFundin and Broadbeam are still standing in the doorway a few feet from Baggins, still unsure about what to do.

"What do you  _want_?"

"I want to  _talk_."

"How do I know you won't kill me?"

"I've already tried three times, you've proven  _funner_  than just a dead body at the bottom of the Thames. I'm a man who thinks that those who manage to survive my assasination attempts on sheer dumb luck not  _once_  but  _thrice_  deserve... how shall I say it? Special treatment."

Spider fingers ruffle the fur of a white german shepherd they don't own. The beast growls and huffs and her two sisters circle around the solid wooden desk in the semidarkness. On the other side of the line, Thorin shoves his way past Bilbo and Bofur. Dwalin nearly digs his nails into his shoulder to stop him before realising it's worthless and useless and stupid.

"Up the hall, Thorin dearest."

"Then  _what_."

" _Rude_  and _impatient_ , too."

_just like father hated them_

Thorin quickens his pace and barely registers the few that trail behind: Bofur, Dwalin, Fili, Kili, Balin. Bilbo's more confused than ever, staring at Fili's back as he jogs after his empty little brother. He doesn't even bother snapping himself back together: he stares at his hand still clutching the phone and just follows. He doesn't register how Oin and Gloin Longbeard stay outside at a safe distance, how Nori leans against a wall and lights himself a cigarette and how Dori barely manages to hold Ori back from following Fili and Kili.

"Then you go up the stairs. The ones to your right."

The dog wrestles herself out of his grip and pads her way to her sisters. He grimaces at the beast: he doesn't like animals, but his employee does, and since his employee has been more than helpful, he might keep them around a little longer. After all, they work as excellent guard dogs.

"Then what?"

Thorin's voice is a demanding growl. From over the phone he suddenly hears classical music: Mozart's Lacrymosa spreading its wings through what is undoubtedly the other's study. And if he could see him, he'd see him standing in the middle of his office, mahogany libraries looming down around him.

"Then you follow the  _white rabbit_." is the last little snarl, before the phonecall gets shut off with a  _click_! and Thorin is left standing at the top of the stairs. The others that have decided to follow quickly reach him. It's so  _bloody quiet._

Not an office is full, not a person in sight. Just their heavy breathing and Thorin's throbbing heart (that only he can hear) and the water in the watercoolers blankly staring back at them.

"What in God's name is goin-"

But Thorin silences Dwalin with a whipcrack of a gesture, a hand raised an inch from his face. Somewhere not too far away, the Lacrymosa's choir is flowing through the air, reaching Thorin's ears. Bilbo can hear it too, Dwalin's eyes widen once he does. Bofur presses a protective hand to Baggins' shoulder and Fili and Kili look as unnerved as Balin.

 _It can't be right_ , Baggins thinks, but knows he won't be listened to.  _This can't be anything else but a trap_. He glances to the side. Fili's biting hard into his lip, green eyes glazed over with worry. Thorin in the meantime's drawn his gun and he's following the music like a 

_ Lacrimosa dies illa,  _

bloodhound follows a scent deep into the forest, like a

_qua resurget ex favilla,_

desperate man searches for answers, like a

_judicandus homo reus._

broken child searches for his father's approval.

_Huic ergo parce, Deus,_

And that's exactly what he does, nearly hitting a jog when the choir bloats and climbs through the walls, when he knows that he's  _almost there_ , and behind him Dwalin is praying, is praying is praying for things to go right.

_Pie Jesu Domine,_

But.

_Dona eis requiem._

Things don't go right. Things never go right.

And so when Thorin reaches the doors to a conference room in a ghost building in a ghost nightmare in a ghost delusion, he's met by a perfectly empty room, save for the whiteboard, the circular table.

The amps placed in the middle of it, the music still loudly roaring out of them. And nobody's there.  _Again_ , nobody's there.

This time the phone doesn't ring. This time, the music abruptly stops and a low, scornful bout of laughter takes its place.

"Thorin. Thorin.  _Thorin_. You know what you are, apart from a liar, a fool, an egotistical bastard and a sick lonely  _idiot_?"

The voice's honeybees are starting to sting Thorin's throat and Thorin's brain. And his mind is doing tricks and turns. A flight he thought he'd freed himself from. There's a dramatic pause for effect.

Then the voice starts again.

"A  _surprisingly. Easy. Man. To destroy._ "

And after that, Thorin's mind splits through the middle as the bleeping of a countdown hits his ears ( _it's a trap it's a bomb it's a trap it's a trap it's a trap_ ) and he turns towards the others. If he could erase the look of utter betrayal that floods Dwalin's grey-blue eyes, he would. But all he can do is lurch forward as the darkness pools in his mouth -  _afghanistan 0700 in the morning are you sure about going out i'll be fine we'll be fine azog's got my back we'll be fine, we'll be fine **not now not now please not now**  you were fine until the boys in front of you hit the mine because someone knew you were there rachel's brains hitting the humvee's windshield as a bullet drilled right through the back of her head you're outside and you've got your gun in hand but there's blood coating your nerves there's blood you're b l e e d i n g  **not now not now please leave me leave me leave me**_  - and somehow Thorin's dragging himself down the stairs he's just run up and there's someone behind him and please be oka -  _crack goes the bullet as it hits your lungs crack it goes as it hits your shoulder you wonder how long it will take you to bleed you won **leave me be let me go leave me no please i no mercy mercy mercy**_ _and then your knees are hitting the ground and your last thought is his always his only his please forgive m_ \--

Thorin makes it to the door in a stagger of breath, Balin behind him, someone else too. Fili? Kili? He can't tell his nerves are coated in blood. And then the bomb goes off as they race to the others outside across the street, the scream of a building torn to pieces. And something is missing within him outside him they're missing they're too few  _where are the others where are the_

 _DWALIN_  is the first thought that tears through him and the second is even more terrifying and he turns towards the burning building and he screams the first name he can manage:

" _KILI_!" explodes in a flurry of desperation, and then behind him: "Thorin? Thorin I'm right  _here_."

Thorin turns to meet only his youngest nephew's eyes for a fraction of a second before the sheer horror of it hits them both, and before he realises what either of them are doing, they've left Balin behind once again (Nori's eyes wide with shock, the Longbeards trembling at what they've just seen. And despite himself all Bombur can think is  _is my brother okay is my brother okay_ , and Bifur can read from his lips, past the frantic way he is mumbling under his breath, his cousin's terror and uses it to fuel his own worry) and the two Oakenshields are already tearing through the vicious crowd assembled back into the opening of what once was the backdoor, smoke poisoning their throats, violence that still makes Thorin's hands shake. Ori's right behind them, despite Dori trying to hold him back.

"FILI!" Thorin yells and there's no answer. The abyss opens at the bottom of his stomach. The stairs have collapsed, rotten footage playing in the back of his eyes of what a bomb tearing through asphalt looks like, smells like, tastes like.  _Not you too not you too not you too_.

"FI- _LI_!" is Kili's desperate wounded animal scream. "FILI! FILI FILI FILI FILI!"

"I'm right here. We're right here."

It's feeble. It's weak, it's caked in dirt. But a single hand is poking out from under the rubble, waving. Kili's the first to launch himself forward but Thorin stops him and starts to dig, moving rock and cement aside. His nephew drags himself from underneath the mess, breathing heavily, blond hair covered in dust. He smiles at Thorin, wiping a small trickle of blood from his mouth. Oakenshield helps him stand up, and Fili's the first to notice how hard his uncle's hands are actually shaking. Dwalin follows him, huffing and puffing. The last one's Bofur, who quickly slithers out of the pocket in the debris (they're all visibly unharmed, they all can walk, they all can talk) and turns towards the hole. He seems panicked as he hisses at the others:

"... _Where's Bilbo_?"

Fili and Kili stare at each other for a dubmfounded second and then at Ori: a switch in their brains turns and they start digging together with Broadbeam, moving as much shattered building as they can. Bilbo's curled at the bottom of the hole they managed to take cover in when the stairs gave out. His eyes are wide and he's staring at nothing and he's on the brink of starting to shake, but not quite. 

" _BILBO_!" Kili barks out, reaching out a hand. Bilbo doesn't respond, but Thorin shoves the three aside and crouches down. He's traumatized, clearly, trapped in a shell of momentary shock. Jackasses yelling his name won't help. _  
_

"Bilbo?" Thorin asks quietly. There seems to be a flicker of movement. "Bilbo, it's all right. We're right here."

His voice has slipped into a sweet, delicate, reassuring murmur- he needs to get Baggins out of there without Baggins having a panic attack ( _like what you had earlier, you weak little bastard_ ) and when Bilbo's eyes turn to meet his he smiles. He doesn't know how reassuring he looks, but he hopes it'll help. 

"Bilbo? Can you hear me?"

Bilbo nods, "Yeah," he murmurs. 

"Do you feel anything broken?"

Baggins shakes his head.

"Okay. I'm gonna help you out now."

Thorin jumps in carefully, dust coating his shirt and Bilbo grabs his outstretched hand. He pulls him up, Baggins wobbles for a second but Thorin's fast enough to steady him. He helps Baggins climb out (Fili and Ori are the ones who pull him the last few inches) and then Bilbo stares at Thorin, who's still in the hole, hands holding onto the jagged edges. Thorin nod and gets ready to push himself back up.

Which is when the ground under Oakenshield's feet gives out, and Thorin's brain doesn't react fast enough. Dwalin's however, does.

The tattooed man manages to grab him just in time and pull him up against himself, Oakenshield's fingers digging into the other's shirt with desperation he wishes he wasn't showing. His heart's beating fast, and the sudden adrenaline and fear rush hits his bloodstream, he feels his chest heave and hit MacFundin's so fast he fears it might collapse on itself.

"I've got ya."

Dwalin calmly says it into his ear, and Thorin swallows, wishing he could feel the relief he needs, but his nerves are on the edge of his skin. Ori's quietly talking to Bilbo, who seems scared and shaken but virtually unharmed.

 _That back there was a panic attack_ , Thorin's rationality suddenly tells him.

 _Nonsense_ he snaps back at it, and ignores the fact that Afghan dust seems to fill his throat to the point of choking.

 

# End of PART ONE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day of sadness,   
>  on which will rise from ashes   
>  guilty man for judgment.   
>  So have mercy, O Lord, on this man.   
>  Compassionate Lord Jesus,   
>  grant them rest. Amen.


	16. part two

## II.
    
    
    Oh we're a mess, poor humans, poor flesh-- hybrids of angels and animals, dolls with diamonds stuffed inside them.

Richard Siken, **Black Telephone**


	17. i

It's raining, an obnoxious summer shower, and it smells of wet ash and dust.

Thranduil forgot his umbrella at the office in the rush to get out on time (buildings exploding in the middle of the day are usually suspicious and these days they so happen to be bloody terrifying) and now he can feel his hair stick to his skull, amtted flat against it. Water slips through his summer clothes and drips into his bones. He wonders, for a brief second, if it could miraculously melt the marrow out of them.

Elk noses around his feet and in return he scritches his ears and runs a hand through the fur on his back. The dog wags happily and Thranduil sighs. 

He takes a swig of his flask and grimaces when he lowers his arm: Tauriel is standing a few meters from him, staring, holding an umbrella. Her auburn hair's stuffed in a beanie and she looks at him with the kind of look you give the person who's just disappointed you in every possible. A wavy curl sticks to her forehead- Thranduil wonders if she's noticed it, and notices that rain for some reason turns the greens of her eyes into a swirling, deadly force. Or maybe it's just the boiling rage she's currently feeling towards him.

Sylvan makes her way through puddles, the few by-standers and bustling policemen.

She stops in front of him, smiles at Elk and then glances to her right, where a flurry of journalists is trying to get past the barrier. She then looks back towards Greenleaf, and covers him with her umbrella.

"They're calling it a terrorist attack. No victims, thank God. At least we got that."

Elk noses against her hip but she doesn't pet him. She's completely aware Thranduil isn't listening, but she doesn't want to delve into an argument head first. So she takes her time, weighs her options and wishes she could still trust him.

"The building was a Goldmünze building."

Thranduil's head snaps up from the drifting ash he was staring at. She blankly looks at him, licks her lips and then snaps: "You're drinking on the job." without commenting on the fact that Thranduil's chopped all his hair off (she'd already had the chance to stare at it, dumbfounded, for a few seconds that morning), without commenting on the fact that he's brought a fucking dog to the crime scene, and not exactly a  _discreet_  or tiny one. No, all she points out is how he's broken last week's promise that was the week before's, that was last month's, and all he does is stare blankly back, water spraying the back of his neck as it drips off of the umbrella. He's not used to it.

"Tauriel, not here.  _Please_." he automaitcally says, and it's jarring even to his own ears. But all she does is glare, tight lipped and simply  _angry_.

"You're not  _allowed_ , Thranduil." 

And she's not talking about codes of conduct or rulebooks or even Elrond's absolute rage should he ever find out, she's talking about something subtle and simple and also terribly complicated, something that has big phrases and big words in it, like  _responsibility_  and  _you're a father_  and  _if we're going to want to make this work_.

 It's all things Thranduil can't and doesn't want to hear: he just scoffs and smugly hands her Elk's leash. 

"Do you happen to have a pair of rubber gloves on you?"

"Oh,  _Jesus_."

Her voice is teetering on the thin line between exasperated laugh and exasperated yell, she can't really decide which one to choose right now. Thranduil finds a damp pair in his damp back pocket and slips them on. He smiles bitterly at her, relishing himself in the absolute emptiness that the alcohol is giving him (or maybe it's just the depression), a false prophet in a bottle that he is welcoming back with open arms. He starts making his way through the crime scene and the people there; behind him, Tauriel stares at him and doesn't know how loud to scream.

" _Wait_!" she finally bellows out, unceremoniously stepping into the no man's land that's covered in debris, dragging a puzzled Elk with her. Some of the officers stare at the dog, some recognise him and smile, albeit being a little confused, Thranduil ignores the fact Sylvan is following him and Sylvan ignores the fact that she's fucking everything up. But if Thranduil's allowed to fuck things up on a regular basis and not face a single consequence, well then so is she, for once. 

Greenleaf stops where it seems there used to be a backdoor, one of those that are signaled on maps no one looks at as "emergency exits". Most of the floor's caved in, and he's pretty sure there used to be stairs there once. Thranduil takes another long, bitter swig just as Tauriel and his dog march up next to him. Elk tries grabbing attention from his human and failing miserably.

"Don't you dare walk into there."

He shrugs at Tauriel and takes a step forward. What little remains of the concrete floor seems fine and safe. He walks a few feet, "JESUS  _CHRIST_ , THRANDUIL!" is nothing but an annoying buzz in his ears. After all, the floor swallowing him whole wouldn't be that much of a problem, a snapped back would be welcomed with pity and thankfulness, staring at the sky with a mouth full of blood would actually be a blessing.

Sadly though, it seems to hold.

His objective is the hole in the ground a few feet from him, where there's signs of footsteps and moved-around rocks. Someone was there before them (he takes a foggy, mental note to remind Tauriel to check with witnesses) and then he slips in a puddle, staggers, and his mind sinks out of view for a moment. He grabs onto a beam sticking out of the mess (it holds his weight, miraculously) and steadies himself. Thranduil shakes his head once, twice, but the fogginess won't leave. And the taste on his tongue is bitter, more bitter than he'd imagined or planned on letting himself allow.

" _Fuck_." he mutters: this is an ugly flashback to days gone by when he'd drink just to get himself through the day, and then the second wave of nausea hits him, along with the realisation that that's exactly what he's been doing for the past month or so. Drinking to get himself through a devastating, scary empty house.

You would've thought a kid would've kept him going, but the thought of Legolas having to face the humiliation of such a disgusting father violently makes him want to crawl into a ball and never move. He'd skimmed through a book about children dealing with alcoholic parents, once, because he's a masochist, and there'd been words like "they will blame themselves" and "the adult-child taking care of an infantile parent pushes aside their own emotions in favor of the parent's, resulting in guilt and a damaged self-worth", which had been permanently scorched into his brain in angry, shame-filled letters. And had only made matters worse.

The silver chain catches his eye almost as if he were in a dream.  _Dog tags_  he thinks, lucid for a miraculous second. He bends over and yanks them out of the mud before anyone notices. Then the vomit hits the back of his throat.

He tries to hold it back, feeling it scorch his palate and disgustingly pool in his mouth, but he can't handle it. He manages to realize that he's about to contaminate a crime scene.

And then he actually does. 

He spews onto his shoes and the sight of vomit just upsets his stomach even more.  _This is why you always eat before drinking, kids, and you always have breakfast in the mornings_! he thinks, smiling feverishly through a drizzle of yellowish bile as he staggers and then leans on his knees.

Behind him, Tauriel mutters "Oh,  _shit_." and glares to the side to avoid having to be subject to the sight of one of Scotland Yard's most promising detective inspectors vomiting all over his suit. 

And then.

Elrond.

Sylvan's shoulders sag when she sees him, she sighs. He makes his way over and doesn't even seem to acknowledge her presence: he seems much more invested into trying to keep himself as calm as possible. He's wearing sunglasses, to cover the exhausted bags under his eyes and to try and quench at least some of the pain that seems to have drilled itself inside his skull and have no intention of leaving (it is common knowledge that chronic migraines and heavy stress are often caught fucking viciously in ratty old motel beds).

All in all, it's a bad sign.

Peredhel's jaw literally  _spasms_  and he looks at Elk with something bordering on pity (but it could also be disgust), meets Tauriel's gaze for a disappointed second, and then finally looks up at Thranduil.

And in his eyes there is undeniably a great deal of bitterness.

He marches over (Tauriel really, really,  _really_  wishes he wasn't there - for Thranduil's sake, more than anything) and grabs Greenleaf by the shoulder, wrestling him into a more or less standing position. Everyone around them has in the meantime stopped doing what they were doing to stare at such a pitiful scene.

Including photographers.

Including reporters. 

_Christ, the Daily Mail's gonna have a fucking ball with this_  Elrond thinks, and wishes he could smash his head against a piece of concrete.

"You just compromised a crime scene." he hisses instead.

"Yeah."

Elrond tugs harder on Thranduil's arm, squeezing. It hurts, a little, and Elrond catches himself wanting to punch the man right in the jaw. His apathy, his disloyalty, the broken promise dripping from his mouth in a pool of vomit at his feet are maddening. He smells of alcohol, Goddammit, and Elrond's a stupid fucking fool for having ever thought this was going to get better. That Legolas would've made a difference, and yet six years clean have just been candidly barfed onto leather shoes.

"This is police brutality." Thranduil smirks.

"You.  _You_."

Elrond has to take a second to calm himself before he can actually talk. It's been an exhausting, harrowing, mentally wrecking last few days. This isn't making it easier.  _Thranduil isn't making it easier_.

"Don't. Say. A word. Don't you even fucking  _dare_  open your mouth."

"But-"

" _Shut up_."

And then he's dragging Thranduil back through the shattered asphalt and past Tauriel, who immediately follows, and they make quite an interesting scene: the head of Scotland Yard dragging his protégé by the shirt collar, followed by one of his best agents (who is, out of the trio, the only one wielding an umbrella), whom is in turn yanking a Great Dane behind her. Said Great Dane is placidly padding along, avoiding the odd puddle and probably wondering why his human is so sad these days, and where his other human, the tiny one, has disappeared to.

* * *

Elrond looks up, and through the glass of his office window (the one that gives onto the hall) he can see Thranduil huddled on a plastic chair, a paper cup of shitty coffee machine tea in his hand and Elk lying down on his feet, tail wagging lazily. If there ever was a poster dog for undying love, he's pretty sure they've got one right there. Tauriel's staring at her boss, waiting for him to make the first move.

To begin with, Elrond leans back against his desk. He's not sitting behind it, there's no barriers between him and Tauriel, he's not even wearing his shades (he's pretty sure he looks like something out of one of those horror movies his daughter always watches without them): he isn't her boss right now, the same way Thranduil isn't her supervisor, right now he's their _friend_. Elrond buries his face in a hand, trying to rub the sore away.

“Okay, tell me what's going on.”

“A Goldmünze building blew up sometime this morn-”

“No, I know that. I'm talking about your boyfriend.”

Tauriel stares at him for a second, baffled. “We're not dating.”

“Didn't you two...?”

“What? No. No, we went out on a date, _onc_ e, about three months ago. But. No. No. He's too out of it to make anything work at all.”

Elrond stares back.

“Right. Okay. So.”

He takes a deep breath- he'd gone to the crime scene straight from the airport and Thranduil hitting rock bottom was definitely _not_ what he was planning on seeing first thing back. 

“What's going on with him?” and he gestures towards the window the moment Thranduil decides to snap out of his apathy. Their eyes meet, and it's horrendously awkward. Then Thranduil swallows, Elrond looks away and they're both back into their little personal nightmares.

Tauriel stares at the wall and just shakes her head, eyes lost. She takes her time, savoring the feeling of dread in her stomach that's pooling right below her bellybutton and slowly but surely flowing into nausea. Sylvan bites a fingernail, and feels it twist under her teeth.

“I... I don't know.”

The admission of guilt and failure is printed in front of them both in three words or less. E for effort in trying to keep him as sane as possible (you both deserve an F, you think, but maybe the E is better: at least he hasn't killed himself yet) and then Tauriel thinks she needs a glass of water more or less exactly when Thranduil thinks he needs a gun to the temple. _He has a kid_ she wishes she could whine, pitifully. _You have a kid Thranduil, can't you think about your kid_ but no, Thranduil is trapped into something else, viscous and horrifying. It's choking him slowly, making him blind and deaf and lonely. And Tauriel doesn't know how to tear through the shell. And not being able to know makes her feel powerless and worthless.

And Elrond can sense all of this, feel all of this and it hurts just the same but he's better at not showing it. He's used to people letting go in front of him. He's used to people letting themselves die. 

( _i'm giving up chemo_ _ **elros you can't just**_ _but i can't do this elrond, i'm too tired to keep on fighting_ )

“I don't _know_ why he's lost his mind, Elrond. I don't _know_ he's just. He's just done it.”

She's burying her face in her hands and she presses hard, until her eyeballs hurt, until she sees yellow and when she pulls her palms away black specks are dancing in front of her. 

“I want Legolas out of there.”

_There_ is number seven, Greenwood Road.

“He already is.”

“... _What_?”

“Thranduil told me he's at Jennifer's.” 

She stares at Peredhel and then scoffs, hollow and completely alienated, “You're fucking kidding me.”

“Nope.”

“So after... after that whole custody mess he just _gave up_ on the kid?”

“I think he gave up on himself.”

“He gave up, _period_.”

There's more rage in her voice than she thought, there's more bitterness, there's more disappointment. She thinks about Jennifer and how she'd gotten herself clean and had married a rich, rich man and how she had popped in after three years of _nothing_ demanding custody of a kid she hardly even knew, and she thinks about how Thranduil had fought tooth and nail to keep his son with him, how hard he'd proven that he was clean, he'd been clean for years, he had an income, he could keep a family going. 

She thinks of him standing in the middle of his kitchen at three AM staring at her and mumbling “I can't afford to lose him.” 

Late-night car rides with him huddled in the back and a tiny blond boy sleeping in his arms and a slightly smaller than he is now Great Dane snoring against his shoulder. 

Begging, crying, _yelling_ at him trying to convince him to give up his pride and ask Elrond help and the money to get a decent lawyer.

But maybe things are better off this way: Thranduil is no longer a person. Thranduil is an amoeba.

“Do you think he'll let me take Elk home?”

“No, Tauriel. He'll cling onto him for sheer life.”

“Someone needs to take care of the dog.”

Translated: someone needs to take care of Thranduil's last pitiful wreck of humanity.

* * *

He stares at the pouring rain as headlights make it shine like something out of a noir movie or just pitiful spit being lit up by fire. If it were petrol he could light a match and hand himself over to pain. As it is, rain isn't petrol and he doesn't have a match on him. He wonders if these thoughts count as suicidal tendencies, but he guesses that until he's swallowed all of the sleeping tablets along with all of the bourbon not many people will notice.

“This is probably one of those cry-for-help things.” Marla/Helena Bonham Carter whispers into the phone as she lies on the bed staring at the ceiling. (Did he even think-quote that right?)

Thranduil turns back and smiles at Elk, “Just give me a second, all right, big boy?”

And his voice shakes for a minute before he switches the car off and steps outside of it. This time though, he has an umbrella.

He wonders what the news would say if his body washed up on the right-side bank of the Thames. For a moment, he realises he's considering dropping Elk off at Tauriel's- he's slipped into the planning phase, and hardly even noticed.

But some very tiny part of him keeps on telling him he has to keep on fighting, and as he checks the address on his phone again to make sure it's right, he wishes he could cry.

* * *

“You're late.”

Tea gets poured in a cup Thranduil knows he won't drink from. The lights are dimmed, the music (he'd recognise it as Allegri's “Miserere” if he wasn't, per the man sitting in front of him's very own definition, an ignorant vermin) is low, a humming disturbing murmur that rests in the dusty pages of the tall bookshelves. 

“I'm sorry, sir.”

The other man scoffs and his webby fingers tap against the wood of his desk once, twice. Apologies are nothing to him. Begging might work, but only if you're on your knees and your wrists have been torn open.

“What's wrong these days, Greenleaf?” he asks, nonchalantly.

Thranduil swallows: for a brilliant moment he muses about ramming the handle of his silver spoon into the other's eye, twisting, and freeing himself. But he's too much of a coward to do certain things, isn't he? So he just stares at the tea and wishes he were dead.

The other smiles at his discomfort and then clicks his tongue.

“As you know, I'm not a man who likes to get his hands dirty.”

Thranduil attempts to force himself to imagine those hands doing _anything_ at all, but they're too lean, too well-kept, too pretty. They seem made of porcelaine, delicate, never used. Easily breakable.

“And I've been paying you to do a very specific thing, haven't I?”

Greenleaf keeps quiet.

“ _Answer me_.”

Someone behind the other scoffs, derisive, and there's a low growl. Three voices turned into one, three white furies prowling in the darkness that everything seems shrouded in.

“Yes. Yes sir.”

“Happy to see you haven't lost your tongue. Is the alcohol you've been rotting your brain with doing any help, as far as numbing goes?”

There's mockery in this question, mockery that slips a few inches below Thranduil's cuticles, and it burns, as it's ripped out and his finger's split in two. He wishes he could cradle his ego.

“I've been asking you to keep Oakenshield in check and the police out of my hair, haven't I?”

“Yes sir.”

“Do you _know_ what I was forced to do today?”

Thranduil swallows and licks his lips. He looks at the teacup and nods very slowly.

“I had to blow up a building for _no reason_ , just to get rid of a pesky little insect. I had fun, but it was _complicated_.”

He nearly seems to be waiting for an answer from Greenleaf, who in the meantime smells of alcohol and of fear and of sweat, and wishes he could shrink away and crawl out through the cracks in the floor. And maybe he _is_ waiting for an answer, because after almost a minute of dead silence save for the music he sighs, loudly, in that melodramatic way he loves so much, and then signals at whoever's behind him with a quick snap of the fingers and a nudge of his head.

And she _jumps_ , Tisiphone, white and terrifying, all snapping jaws and red tongues and drool, she jumps and before Thranduil realises what's happening, her front paws are colliding with his chest, and he's being thrown backwards, the chair's being thrown backwards, his back's hitting the floor, his arms are up the jaws are _snapping_ , starving hungry murderous, inches from his face. His voice is a mangled scream, and he feels the dog's jaw close in on his arm.

It hurts, God does it hurt. There's another two growls, or roars, he can't even fucking tell, albino wolf dogs with eyes blazing, Megaera and Alecto snarl inches from his ears.

Someone (he knows exactly who) pushes a chair back and stands, suddenly, and his voice is that of a murderer: “I do not accept _failure_ , Greenleaf, of _any kind_. Another mistake like _this_ , and I will remind you that the dogs are getting _hungry_.”

He kicks Tisiphone aside, who wails and snarls but knows well when to strike and when to be quiet. Her sisters prowl around her, the three dogs circle the two men. Thranduil knows he's crying.

Smaug crouches, nearly straddeling him, and cups Thranduil's face. 

“Does it _hurt_?” he asks, almost laughing. Thranduil's trembling too hard to nod. Smaug chuckles and lets Greenleaf's head fall back. He catches a glimpse of the dog tags peeking out of the detective inspector's breast pocket. He pulls them out, dangles them in front of his face and smirks, clicks his tongue, “Well at least you did _something_ good.”

And then he's standing again, cyanide voice already swimming inside Thranduil's clouding brain, “Mister Gundabad?”

The three bitches rush over to their owner, Tisiphone licking her chops, snarling at her sisters when they step on her paws. She's the oldest, the biggest of them: Cerberus divided by three, Erebos walking, Furies incarnated.

“Sir?”

Smaug hands him the dog tags, as Thranduil crawls into a fetal position. His arm is burning, he knows it's wet with blood.

“I think it's time for an old army buddy reunion, don't you think?”


	18. ii


      **SUMMER  
    
    2010**
    

"Please don't tell Mum?”

“Oh,  _fuck_.”

Fili bends his neck back and rams the heels of his palms right into his eyes, before dragging his hands down across his face and staring at his little brother. He slams them a bit too hard, and they hurt, the pressure creeping from the bridge of his nose into an empty cranium. His left arm is aching and begging and egging him on, in the back of his mind there is filth waiting to be let out again,  _but it's been five years but it was just six weeks but there's forty-eight gashes and ten cigarette burns but there's emptiness but there's you tiptoeing on the wrong side of a razor blade a dancer with tied padlocked feet but you are twenty-two now you are no longer a child but your seventeen year old brother has drunk himself beyond oblivion and_ **it's all your fault** _, oh mother forgive me_.

Kili stares at him.

“ _Please_?”

“We're on her. We're on her fucking  _doorstep_ , Kee.”

Fili glances over at the flowerpots Kili's just vomited into, Kili who's curled in a small ball at his feet, fingers like talons buried in his hair (and Dis, if she could see him, if she hadn't glanced at them through the shut curtains for a moment that neither of them had noticed and then walked into her kitchen and leaned her forehead against the cool of the wall and let the empty swallow her instead of staying rooted to the spot, would think for a horrible mind-tricking moment of how much he looks like Frerin- minus the blue eyes, minus the brain wired wrong, Dis,  _I'm wired wrong_ ,  _no, no God no. You're just wired different._ )

But their mother isn't looking, and it's three AM, and they're the loneliest boys on the planet.

And Kili is very, very drunk. He teeters forward and Fili's instantly down crouched on the ground, supporting him so he doesn't fall. The seventeen year old boy reeks of vomit and of sweat, shoulders hiding in a leather jacket that's too big for him and isn't his.

“...then can I sleep at your place?”

“ _Kee_.”

“Please?  _Please_.”

There's pressure on Fili's left shoulder, against which Kili's forehead is leaning, and they stay like that for a few moments, until Fili's sure he won't hurt himself and so sits next to him. The dark-haired boy smiles exhaustedly at his brother and stares right past him, somewhere behind his left ear. He's bleary eyed, both because he's about to cry and because he's completely drunk: and so the smile is a jarring mismatch, razor-sharp, on his face. He blinks, a rogue tear rolls, it's noticed by the other.

“I can't walk inside like this.” he says, the first coherent thought in the last forty-five minutes, and there's shame in the “this”, far too much of it.

“I know.”

Fili lights himself a cigarette and his head hurts. He stares at the smoke that curls around the air, subtly creeps up on it and chokes it the same way it's choking the cells in his lungs and then he notices how bloody fucking  _empty_  the sky is, and yet it's so calm.

It's unfair. London's eaten her stars and feasted on their light, it's left them without something to cling to.

“Can I have one?”

“No, you're not allowed to smoke at seventeen.”

But despite his words Fee senses Kili's fingers creep into his clutched fist to try and reach the cigarette pack he's holding- “ _Jesus_ , Kili!” the oldest barks, tearing himself off of the doorstep and into a standing position. Kee cowers back, Fili realizes he's yelled a bit too loud- he looks up, and his mother's eyes meet his through a semi-lit window. His shoulders sag into an apology, a blood symphony he hasn't heard in so long is asking to drip down the drain, a monkey (heavy) is crushing his back.

He looks down at his little brother, who's gone back to staring at the grass in their mother's garden.

“Kee... Kili?”

Kili's movements are so slow Fili cannot ignore the obvious sadness that is making them too heavy to handle. It takes him an eternity to force himself to look up. Fili outstretches his hand and helps him stand, and Kili clings to his older brother for sheer life, nails digging into his shoulder as he stands.

“You all right?” Fili asks, and Kili doesn't do a thing. His breathing is a shaky, intoxicated mess. Fili nods for the both of them, and then they just stand there, and before he knows it they're leaning their foreheads together like when they were eight and twelve and they were hiding under the blankets, hiding from the nightmares, hiding from the hurt of a dead Daddy, hiding from growing up too fast for their own good. For a moment, they hide from the world, and it's all they can give themselves.

* * *

He's sitting on his mother's front door step and rests his head against his knees, sighing as the cigarette drips ash. He (wonders if anyone would notice a small round wound in the crook of his left arm) wonders if he can go the rest of the night without sleep and just drink drink drink even though his bones are so  _tired_  his mind is so  _tired_ , he wonders how it all came to this, how a seventeen year old boy vomits all the way up the stairs, how he left his little brother in the room they used to share three years ago and it felt wrong and as if the posters on the wall had left some sort of stain on the tips of his fingers- and now he's desperately trying to erase it by curling up as tight as he can and crawling back down as deep as he can, as far as he can. But his car is much too far away for him to crawl to.

The door opens quietly, and he looks up.

“Hey, Mum.”

He smiles and she smiles back and they're both exhausted.

“He's asleep.”

“That's good.”

(Nothing's good, right now, your mother is in pain and God died crushed between twisted metal with your father in a car crash exactly ten years ago and you disproved the existence of Jesus by looking at yourself in a mirror and thinking you'd look good with a bullet through your teeth,  _amen_ ).

She sits next to him- he is three again, needing Mummy just to get through every other day, and he will be three for the next half hour, because they both need it.

For thirty minutes, Dis creeps an arm around her eldest son's shoulders, he leans his head against her chest, she holds him tight.

Neither of them cry.

* * *
    
    
      **PRESENT DAY**
    

“Does. Uh. Does Becca know we're back in London?”

Fili looks at himself in the bathroom mirror: his expression is indecipherable, even to himself.

“Not. Not really, no.”

He dunks his head underwater and leaves it there until his lungs are burning.

“You all right? I mean. Really. Are you okay?”

Fili can't hear him right now, or rather, his brother's voice is muffled and distant, something belonging to a different world entirely.

“Fee.”

Silence.

“ _Fee_.”

Kili lies back across his bed and stares at the bathroom door, which has been left ajar enough for him to catch a glimpse of his older brother's antics, so he sighs and stands up and pushes the door open and stares at his brother and sighs again. He waits, because he knows he has to wait, it's all he knows and can do- after a few more seconds, Fili pulls himself out from underwater, hair matted to his neck and shoulders. He breathes, once, twice, lets oxygen burrow deep inside his lungs, gives himself the time he's scared no one will allow him to ever have back.

“Are you okay?” Kili asks again, a moment too soon, and the words dig right into his chest. Fili looks at himself in the mirror, at the bruises and cuts, the right side of his jaw looks almost swollen, and he blatantly decides to ignore Kili. At least for a few seconds.

“Fili?”

“I'm fine.”

The sound Kili makes is disturbingly similar to the sound Rebecca makes when she knows he's bullshitting her. Fili's shoulders don't sag, this time. This time they're a tense mass of muscle and of fear, it's a kind of terror he hasn't felt in years (too alike for his own comfort to the all-encompassing horror that used to overcome him, a lifetime before, when he ever forgot to wear long sleeves), but Kili doesn't stop, he  _never stops_.

“I don't know. You look awful for a guy who's just had a building crash on his head, so I  _really_ -”

“Well then I could ask you the same exact bloody question.”

Kili's jaw tightens.

“I'm fine. I'm perfectly in control.”

“ _Right_. After having a gun pointed at your head and killing a man.”

The eldest grabs a towel and dries his face off, after having glanced at Kili with eyes full of annoyance, sarcasm and worry- a mix that's usually there, whenever he looks at his kid brother. Then comes the “I know you're bullshitting me” ironic little smirk, and Kili sheepishly mumbles out “I've got my feelings under control.”

Which is a little lie that makes Fili trip in his brain for a moment (he's exhausted after all) and, against his better judgement, he's tempted to sneer out: “ _Really_? 'Cause I don't see any bottles around.”

But he doesn't, because he's just too fucking tired. He exhaustedly trudges past his little brother and turns around to face him and then comes The Quiet and it weighs with all the things they haven't told each other yet and will never have the chance to, things that have piled up between them over the last two months and over the last eleven years and ever since daddy died ever since Thorin tried to kill himself ever since Kili's nose was broken, you're moving out? i'm moving in with becca but this is the second time you're abandoning me  _i'm not abandoning you don't be ridiculous-_

 _and maybe if i drink myself to death i will be happy_.

They stare at each other.

“Listen, we're just both-”

“Really fucking stressed?”, and Kili's smirking when he says this. Is there a word for sad sarcasm?, Fili wonders. Is it bitterness? Yes but not quite.

"Yeah.  _Tell me about it_."

It's  _defeat_.

Kili is twenty years old, and he's defeated. He watches things go by and drinks himself to pieces and watches as life unravels between his fingers, because if you are an Oakenshield child you know what wrong is and you know that you are it, you are bruised blood and cursed blood: doom, or mental illness, unhappiness, call it what you will, call it what it is, you are spawned from a great line of psychos and loonies and sad little lonely men, and you will never be anything different from that, deep down, it is latched to your bones.

And the Oakenshield children do not flee from a fight.

Go on, trick yourself.  _That girl won't fill you up, that boy won't make you happier_. They can pretend and they can make it easier, but they will never cure, it will never be cured there is  _doom_  within you, engraved by God or fate or coincidence into your pathetic worthless DNA. (But there's something new in Kili's life and he is not letting go of it no matter how cursed he thinks he is, something that sauntered into an art history lesson, late, three months ago, something he hasn't told anyone about because he's so damned scared of it, something named Alex that's all a French accent and lean legs dancing and messy hair).

Kili is contempt witnessing his own destruction in the hopes that he will rise from the ashes unscathed and find a new life, free from a toxic toxic family, whilst Fili...  _Fili_   _wants to fix things_ , but all Fili does is break them over and over and over, and he never stops to think about the one thing he could fix, which is himself, and no one's ever taken the time to tell him that patching yourself up isn't the same thing as fixing, that hastily filled holes are going to collapse anyway, that broken things  _have to be fixed with diligence and calmness and empathy_. But on the other hand, lost boys never listen. 

(Just like Thorin- break your wrists  _break his heart_  break your skin  _break yourself_.)

Someone knocks, unexpected.

"Just a  _moment_!" 

Fee awkwardly and quickly lurches across his bed, the one closest to the window, and digs through his bag to find a t-shirt, which he manages to wrestle into, "Come in.", the moment his uncle opens the door.

Thorin blinks at his nephew, and Fili is as a matter of fact yes, very much aware that the shirt is on backwards. So's Kili, who smiles at his brother despite himself.

"Do you mind if I...?" Thorin asks, and Fili just nods as he quickly rams all of his hair in a messy bun. "Yeah. Sure." Oakenshield takes a step in, the door shuts behind him.

Kili notices their uncle looks more exhausted than he has in... well,  _weeks_ , since he can't use years as a means of measure. He hasn't properly even been in the same room with him in years, but he's pretty sure the circles under his eyes haven't been that dark since the suicide attempt that pinned Fili to a wall of guilt that still hasn't let him go. Not that he wants to remember that much about those hectic months- after all, he was twelve. 

"We need to talk."

"Oh?"

The two brothers' first thought is an infantile "Oh God  _I've done something wrong_."

"I want you two to go home."

"Wait, what?" they both say and Fili stands up, " _What_?"

"Home. Both of you. This is too dangerous."

 _This got out of hand much too fast and now I don't know how to control it_.

Fili scoffs immediately, "Out of the question."

"Fili."

"You need someone to watch your back."

"I have Dwalin."

Fili sighs loudly and glares at his brother, who's crossed his arms tight over his chest, maybe waiting for him to chime in (he doesn't, of course) and then looks back at his uncle: "We're not leaving."

("Speak for yourself," Kili thinks. But he already knows he'll stay, if Fili sticks around: he couldn't let his big brother down so much).

"Listen. I don't. I don't want you to get hurt because of me."

"Well, it's a bit too late for that." Kili blurts out before Fili can stop him, and honest to God, for a moment, Thorin looks like he's about to cry.

"Your mother didn't even want you two to come along."

"Yeah the thing is, Mum hasn't really decided for us in a while."

Thorin stares at his youngest nephew and then rubs a hand over his eyes, but there's a flash and there's blood and there's his mouth full of death whenever he blinks. It knocks the air out of his lungs. He opens his eyes very, very slowly and stares at the carpet, the millisecond of a nightmare. Reality slips out of view.

"Hey. You all right?"

Kili even sounds mildly concerned, which surprises Thorin, which drags him back to the wobbling mental crutches he's had to bring back ever since Mozart's Lacrymosa was force-fed down his brain, which doesn't ground him, not one bit. Smaug's explosion was a trigger and now the gun can't stop going off in his ears, over and over, a bang that sometimes chokes out every other sound and he's alone in a crystal web crawling around him and silly him for thinking he was  _over it_ , silly him for thinking he'd finally gone sane again. Silly him for thinking he'd be capable of functioning without a system full of chemicals, blood type: anti-depressants, anxiety medication and sleeping pills.

"...Thorin?"

He waves Kili's question away, "I'm fine."

Fili's knowing, concerned eyes stick to his sweaty brow and slightly shaking hands ( _steady them down oh for god's sake please steady them down_ ) that he lowers and buries in his pockets the moment he catches the blond staring. Fili knows there's no way to fix this. Fili knows that his uncle needs his pills and that there's no way he'll ever take them.

"We're not leaving you alone, Thorin. We can't."

And a thirteen year old boy who's holding his mother while she's having a panic attack suddenly feels very, very powerless.

* * *

He honestly thought he'd brought more stuff, but on the other hand he had also honestly thought a building wasn't ever going to collapse on him and basically nearly kill him. Oh, and he also honestly thought he wasn't ever going to get a gun pointed at his head, because, honestly, up to a week earlier, he was nothing but an honest Tesco employee.

Bilbo stares at his backpack and at the tedious maroon walls of the small hotel room, cracks his neck and then sighs loudly. He grabs his bag and quietly shuts the door behind him and pads his way down the carpeted hallway, up to the elevator. Someone's talking in the room closest to him (is it Fili?) but he's not really inclined to care right now, all he wants to do is get out and catch a cab home. There's a pang of guilt for a moment and then the elevator doors ping open.

Bofur Broadbeam is standing in it, and his eyebrow arches quizzically when he notices Bilbo's backpack.

“Going somewhere?”

“Yes. No. I mean-”

The doors start to shut when Bofur hits the button just in time, stalling them, “Up or down?” he asks.

“D... down.”

Broadbeam frowns. “Pity, I'll have to make the trip twice.”

“No no no it's fine, it's fine I'll take the stairs-”

“Ah, hop in Baggins.” and he gestures to Bilbo to come inside. Bilbo swallows, uneasy. “Can't hold the button forever. And besides, you look like you need a chat.”

“And you... chat with people?”

Bofur shrugs, “If I like them.”

“And if you don't?”

“I kill 'em.”

He laughs at Bilbo's horrified expression, “I'm just joking, I only kill them if someone pays me to do it. Although hating them does make the job more enjoyable.”

Bilbo giggles along nervously and then, at Bofur's frantic gesture, decides to slip into the elevator. Bofur lets the doors close. _Hotel California_ is apparently the designated elevator music, and Baggins takes a moment to let himself admire the hotel managers' clearly absolutely brilliant sense of humor. Bofur, on the other hand, is carefully fixing his hair in the shiny reflective walls. He then glances to the side and frowns at the backpack.

"So are you...?”

“Am I what?”

“Leaving?”

Bilbo awkwardly averts Broadbeams gaze.

“And don't lie, 'cause I'll know if you're lying, and I hate it when people lie to me.”

“All right then yes, I'm leaving.”

“ _No_.”

Bofur's expression looks genuinely disappointed and sad. Even heartbroken. And then the doors swoosh open, and Bilbo steps outside.

“You can't leave, they'll tear you apart.”

“Who could _possibly_ want to do something like that?” Bilbo asks, and by now Bofur's followed him into the lobby.

“Everyone. Smaug, mainly. He'll hunt you down to get to Oakenshield. And besides, you've got something no one else has.”

“Oh, there's plenty of good hackers out there.”

Bofur sighs, “Listen, you were already _a legend_ back when I still worked for MI6.”

Bilbo stops in front of the desk and stares at Bofur, “You. You worked for MI6?”

Broadbeam shrugs, “Everyone makes mistakes.”

“So. So what happened? Did you leave, did you-”

“I got bored.”

“And?”

But Bofur briskly smiling at him tells Bilbo that's all he's ever going to know. Baggins swallows, blinks a few times, torn between being puzzled, scared, apathetic (it helps when dealing with terrifying things) or just genuinely _glad_ that all of this is about to end. For a start, he drops the key off and pays (although the damn contract that's stuffed in his bag somewhere stated that Oakenshield would cover all expenses, Baggins figures that leaving in the middle of the heist somewhat cancels that contract out), all the while feeling Bofur's eyes stuck to his back. Despite this, he feels instantly relieved.

“C'mon.”

“What?”

“I'll offer you a cigarette. Might change your mind in the meantime.”

Bilbo frowns at him, “I really don't think it'll work.” and pushes his way past the rotating glass doors, into the familiar London street. Someone's waiting for the bus on the corner of the sidewalk, and the headline reads, in black, bold, all caps: “ _BOMBING TERRORIZES LONDON_.”

Just as he said, Bofur presents Bilbo with a cigarette and then pulls one out for himself.

“Baggins, listen to me. You are the most vulnerable piece on the chessboard, all right? You're a pawn. Without someone watching your back, from this moment onward you're fresh meat ready to be eaten. I know people. There are people who _kill_ without a second thought. People like Nori Rison, but worse.”

Bilbo swallows and stares at his feet.

“Leaving now without having seen this to an end would mean exposing yourself far too much. You'd be completely defenseless.”

“Couldn't, I don't know... couldn't Peredhel protect me?”

Bofur scoffs and rolls his eyes.

Listen, the people Peredhel actually cares about are, in order, _himself_ , his job, his daughter, and, lastly, whatever other family he has. His top priority is not getting torn to pieces by the head of National Security because he's too busy covering up for the mistakes other people make due to the fact that he's absolute _shit_ at his job.” Bofur sniggers, “So no, Baggins, I'm sorry but Peredhel _won't_ help you. I doubt he even remembers your name.”

“I mean, why do _you_ even care? Oakenshield hates me, his nephews think I'm an idiot, half of you wants me gone and the other half barely even notices I'm there most of the time!”

“ _Hey_. I care.”

Bilbo freezes and stares at Bofur, cigarette dangling from his lip.

“Beaing a contract killer doesn't mean I can't have _emotions_ , you know.” the other sarcastically snaps, noticing Bilbo's puzzlement.

“Yeah. Yeah, I know that. I'm just... surprised that anyone. You know. Gives a shit, that's all.”

“So. Someone would miss you.”

“No. No I can't stay, I can't do this.”

“Come on.”

“I honestly _don't know why you're so concerned_.”

“Because you're playing with the big boys, now!” Bofur exclaims, “You've stepped into a world you can't step back from! You're not hiding behind a username anymore, _people know who you are and what you do_.”

Bilbo doesn't mention how he's pretty sure that back in the day there was already more than one person keeping a close curious eye on him and his work, and that he is absolutely _certain_ that one of them is the same person who popped by his dining room a couple of days earlier.

“...can I at least give you something to protect yourself with?” Bofur sighs, and rummages with something behind his back.

“ _What_?”

Out comes a small revolver.

“ _Jesus Christ_!” Bilbo yelps, pushing it away and hiding it with both hands whilst doing so. He glances around, hoping that no one's noticed. Bofur chuckles.

“I can't own a gun.”

"Consider it a good-bye present." Broadbeam's voice is joyous, but also bitter, he sounds like a friend who's sad you're leaving but knows he'll have to accept it anyway. Bilbo is pretty much set on going: he's already thinking about his comfy bed and the beer he'll maybe drink and the long, long sleep he's planning on granting himself. Bofur pushes the gun back towards Bilbo, who bites his lower lip: the longer he argues about it, the longer it'll stay out in the open and risk being seen, so he reluctantly grabs it and quickly stuffs it into his bag, counting on wiping it clean later and then throwing it out somewhere. With a panicked moment of clarity he remembers about hotel security cameras but the deed is done, there's nothing he can do about it now.

"It's even loaded."

"Yeah. Yeah. Wonderful," he mumbles, but when he looks back up Bofur's staring at something or someone across the steet, beyond the screaming and churning river of traffic. 

"Go." Broadbeam suddenly blurts out, taking a step back, hand automatically rushing to the gun hidden in his jacket. 

"What?"

"Just. Go."

Bilbo turns around to look towards where the other is staring.

"Baggins.  _Go_."

"What's going on?" Bilbo asks, as a group of what looks like burly body guards crosses the street. Bofur's already holding the door open.

"Bofur?"

"...The big boys've gome out to play." he plainly answers, and then he's rushing back inside, leaving Bilbo alone on the curb, inexplicable dread shredding through his stomach.

It's when the people his mind has decided are just bodyguards pass him without much of a glance and storm into the lobby and out come the machine guns and the ghastly sound of a round being fired a few feet above the receptionist's head and a cackling, sniggering voice declaring "All right, ladies and gents, you give us your absolute and unabridged collaporation and we promise no one's gonna get _too_ hurt." that the dread finds its logical and pragmatic explanation.

And Bilbo, with a small rifle hidden in his bag and absolute, blood-chilling terror staining his thoughts,  _runs_.


	19. iii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for this being so late & much much thanks to vee for beta'ing the gollum&bilbo interaction and thus calming my nervous bunny heart

Bilbo yelps, hisses, stumbles- he takes a few steps and then lets out a whine, because God it hurts? His ankle hurts, he's twisted it someway whilst running. He freezes and leans forward and shuffles against a wall, knees slightly bent, takes the weight off his throbbing left foot.

He furrows his brow and squeezes his eyes shut for a moment and then counts to thirty, massaging his ankle. Something presses against the small of his back and he knows it's Bofur's gun, so he swallows and ignores it for the time being- right now, he needs to be sure he can walk.

He can. A few tentative steps and all there is is a dull throb that clambers up to his hip, but it's not broken at least, at least he can walk, at least he can get himself out of such a goddamn mess. The alleyway he ran into, panic-stricken, isn't anything he's familiar with. He's so tired he can't even  _think_  let alone  _hear himself_  think. He leans over again, catches his breath. Bilbo feels light-headed and doesn't know why, he figures it's the elation of finally having pried himself out of Oakensheild's insane heist, or maybe endorphines being released into his body following the pain in his ankle. Either way, he feels like he's a stitch away from flipping out of his body, and it scares him, suspended as he is over a chasm that is empty that is dirt that is wondering if he'll be ready to go back to his normal life now that all of this is over (not that he knows what is to follow, not that he knows there's going to be blood on his hands and there's going to be fingers around his neck, pressing, squeezing, a friend growling in his ear "You little worthless  _bastard_.") but for now he cracks his neck and freezes. Because under an old piece of cardboard, someone's staring at him, large eyes trapped in a sunken face.

And they stare, and they snarl, and then they crawl out towards him.

* * *

Thorin swallows and stares at his feet.

There's a gun pointing at the back of his head, and there's a body a few feet away from him, blond hair twisted and torn and matted with blood, a shadow made of brain matter scattered on the wall opposite. She looks twenty, maybe a bit older, and she's wearing a pretty flower pattern dress and she's dead because of him, she's dead because of what he's done and said. Goblin smirks and tilts his head at her body and then turns towards the other hotel guests.

“You know the problem is he wants you  _alive_  because he wants to kill you himself, which I completely respect.”

He flips around again to face Thorin, and grins, “But it would save all of us a whole lot of trouble if he wanted you dead, you see? Because I could put a bullet through your brain and all this mess would be over. But no, I have to convince you to just shut the fuck up, say “ _yes sir_ ” and come along like the good little doggie you are and save all of these people's lives- but you're more interested in what is it, your... your  _pride_? Is that it?”

Thorin stares at him, expression blank save for the fire burning in his eyes.

"It is,  _isn't it_?"

Goblin shakes his head and clicks his tongue, “Don't make me do this, Thorin.” he says, before turning towards Fili and Kili (their hands behind their back, a gun pressed where the neck meets the shoulder) and hitting Fili in the face with the grip of his glock. Fili hisses in pain and blood seeps through his teeth.

“ _Leave them_ -”

But the thug holding the gun to Thorin's nape presses it, hard, against his flesh, and Thorin is quieted.

“Which one shall it be, Thorin? The blond or the brunet?"

He runs the tip of his gun along Kili's cheek, who takes a breath but doesn't let it out. His eyes dart to the side, dart to the wall, dart as far as possible. 

"Or do you want me to keep on killing hotel guests?  _Innocent_  hotel guests, may I add. Whoever I murder, Thorin, their blood will be on your hands.  _More blood_  than there already is. Sweetheart, I advise you do what you're told."

Hiding behind the stairway door, Nori and Bofur close behind him (Bofur had broken two necks but Nori had given himself the luxury of playing with his food just a bit longer, hissing a delicate, gut-wrenching " _Hush_. Don't struggle." into the ear of the man he'd quietly choked to death- Balin's standing next to their bodies, now, trying not to stare) Dwalin swallows and cracks his joints before slipping the knuckledusters on. Nori's older brother is there, too- the others are scattered throughout the building, on the lookout in case something  _worse_  comes along. 

" _What the fuck are you_ -" Dori suddenly hisses through clenched teeth, narrowing his eyes at his little brother, who's just appeared up a flight of stairs. Ori glares at him, "Kili and Fili are there." he curtly answers. "They're my friends."

"I thought you didn't care about the Oakenshield brats." Nori says, sounding mildly amused.

"It's dangerous,  _go back to your room_."

"Let me  _stay_."

"Yes, Dori, let him stay." Nori croons, licks his lips, eyes his younger brother. "If he wants to prove himself, let him stay."

He smirks at Dori, who seems on the brink of slamming him against the wall and tearing his teeth out one by one, which only makes the smirk wider, more dangerous and that minuscule, almost invisible fraction of  _crueler_.

He winks at Ori, who doesn't respond.

* * *

Bilbo automatically (it surprises even him, or whatever little part of him left that isn't desperately calculating the fastest and least painful escape route) searches for Bofur's gun and pulls it out and points it at the person that's staring at him: malnourished, eyes darting (they were blue, once, maybe even pretty), crouched on the dirty concrete. They stand up, knees cracking, head twisting to the side in curiosity.

Bilbo's back's against the wall and he's trembling visibly. 

The alleyway is, of course, deserted.

"And what do we have here?" the person in front of him asks, apparently to themselves, apparently to no one, "What do we have  _here_ , Precious?"

Bilbo lets out a trembling, scared "Stay _back_!" which has the same effect gravel thrown against a concrete wall would have: it rings against the dull air but does little else. The person in front of him doesn't budge but shuffles closer, and Bilbo is suddenly very aware that he's trapped. He is trapped, and the one in front of him bares their teeth, smirks and is suddenly slamming both hands against the wall, face inches from Baggins', "what  _are you_ ,  _Precious_?"

The way they say  _precious_  is sickly and rank, the "r" rolling off their tongue through rotting teeth and rotten breath with a hint of morbidity, of obsession and possession and lust for power and control over nothing, over the air they breathe, over the life they've stolen from and for themselves ( _murderer_ the voices whisper at night and Smeagol whimpers in return). Bilbo swallows and tries to calm his trembling hands. He knows very well he'll never be able to pull the trigger. He can smell their breath, and it makes his stomach churn in unpleasant ways, up to his throat. He presses the gun against the other's belly and the person in front of him backs away and tilts their head and snarls, a little (he's not sure it's a snarl, but it sounds like one) before asking again.

“I _don't want any troubl_ e. I'm just lost, I just want to get out of here. Is it money you want? I have money, I can give you money.”

“We don't want _money_ , Precious. What's it's name? What is it?” 

Bilbo furrows his brow, and swallows. “Who... who's name?” He buys time, because right now he has no idea what to do.

“ _It's, it's name_!” it hisses back, growing impatient. 

“My name?”

“Yes.”

Bilbo cringes a little, inside. He decides to give an old, old name for privacy's sake- and the fact that he wants to get out of there as fast as possible, with as little complications as possible- one he thought he'd forgotten. It's a name he used to use back in the day, a name that nearly got him arrested. A name he somewhat misses and is still proud of.

“Burglar.”

“ _Burglar_?” they ask, and Bilbo suddenly sees their eyes flash, alight, burning- brighter than they've been in years. Than they've been in decades.

“Yes... Burglar.”

Bilbo has a bad feeling about this. There's mania in the other's eyes, sudden, like Nori's but different, and the bad feeling intensifies when the other grabs his wrist before he can react, lean fingers much stronger than he expected, and drags him into the building right across from them. Bilbo tries to scream: a grimy hand slams against his mouth before he can even make a sound. 

“ _The_ Burglar, yes, Precious? The one who brought them to their knees?”

The hand loosens enough for him to be able to breathe and talk. Bilbo's heart is pounding in his ears.

“...them?” 

“The _system_ , Precious. The ones who search and sniff and hunt and drag you into tiny rooms and don't let you see anyone ever ever ever _at all_ , because you've broken the law, you've been much too bad, Precious, you've gone much too _far_.”

Bilbo blesses the fact he's never had to face an interrogation for what he's done, much less an arrest.

“But you're Burglar, Precious, you're special.”

The room they're in is filthy, a cacophony of rats scuttling for cover, of them stepping over cable wires and dirt and God knows what else, Bilbo sees boxes and the carcass of a bed and a desk covered in screens. He finds himself forced in a shaky metal chair and presented with a keyboard. 

“I could scream, you know.”

“Oh, but you _won't_ , will you?”

The other smirks at him (a sideways, rickety thing with too little teeth) as they sit in another chair, and Bilbo's noticing just now the subtle changes in their voice, the highs and lows and tiny little growls. There almost seems to be two people in there, two things biting and snarling and snapping at each other trying to keep themselves and the rival at bay, in their own way. One spits, the other cowers. One smiles, the other growls.

“And they call us Gollum, Precious, and we had another name, but it was taken from us.”

It's a familiar name from a few years back, Bilbo realizes. A name belonging to someone who'd broken into something and found something big and dangerous. Rumor had it they'd killed for it, rumor had it they'd been arrested and shunned. Rumor had it they were _dead_ , but apparently not. Apparently they're very much alive, and sitting across from him.

“How about a game, Precious?”

“A game?” Bilbo asks. The air around him is stale and dusty and thick with humidity and mold. His throat, on the other hand, is thick with fear and panic. He wipes sweaty palms against his jeans and tries to force himself to swallow.

“Yes, Precious. A game. A game. _A game_. One wins, one loses.”

“And if I win, you'll let me go?”

“And if you _lose_ , Burglar- what then? What if he loses?”

They ask it to the air in front of them, and then the difference becomes clearer- “If he _loses_ , Precious, we snap its neck, because no one can know where we are, Precious, no one _at all_.” 

This isn't the voice Bilbo heard just moments before. This is lower, deeper, more vicious. This ends with a subtler smirk, and Bilbo suddenly vehemently wishes he had the courage to scream. 

As things often are, he doesn't.

Gollum grabs a small USB key, one Bilbo hadn't noticed before: smaller than a usual key, a lanyard attached to it, it's a horribly trashy shade of bronze. When Gollum plugs it into his rattling laptop, it lights up: flashing red.

“And, uh, what's that?”

Gollum smiles and smirks and their eyes shine, “We break into things, thanks to this, Precious. We crawl deep deep deep into their system and they can never catch us, because they can't _see us_ , they don't know we're _there_. It covers our tracks, Precious, it keeps us in the dark and safe and out of harm's way. Their systems can't detect us, if we use this, _Burglar_.”

The last word, spat out, hissed out, ties Bilbo and Gollum with sticky black choking strands for the fraction of the second it is muttered in the semidarkness. It ties them, they're in this together, whatever _this_ is, and Bilbo realizes he has no other options left but go along and pray for the best, which doesn't really help in any way. But a fool's hope is usually the strongest- and if there's one thing Bilbo knows and is sure about himself is that, albeit rusty, his hacking skills are good. More than good. They're extraordinary. Baggins stares at the small key as Gollum starts typing away and then asks, “So... what are we doing?”

“A hacking game, a game of wits, we see who breaks the most, or breaks the fastest. We see how much we can _trick them_. You hack this in under two minutes.”

Bilbo thinks of how handy owning something like that key could be- and a part of him snaps back that his main objective is to _get home safe and sound_ , not steal high-tech equipment and hope to make it out of it with his neck relatively intact.

“ _You_ start, Burglar.” Gollum hisses, and tilts their head, and turns the screen towards him. Lines of white code against black, Bilbo huffs and puffs, furrows his brow, and starts typing. The scan starts almost immediately. It takes it a few moments, but then Bilbo types in something else and an error message appears. He stops to think and eyes Gollum (he's met by expecting, terrifying blue eyes stuck in the middle of their scrawny skull) for a fraction of a second, before typing in a few commands- the screen bleeps and Bilbo lets out an excited yelp. The website, whatever it was, crashes (a disgruntled lesbian porn aficionado in Wyoming groans when he gets an error message). He types another address in and then turns the monitor back towards the other.

“You hack this in a minute and a half,” Bilbo says, triumphant smile on his face. He missed this. _He missed this_.

Gollum growls at him and starts to type in return. 

It takes him a minute to crash Wikipedia. 

Bilbo's smile falls and he swallows and Gollum snaps their jaws and smirks, wide, showing the darkened stubs that once were teeth in mockery. A new website, a new challenge.

“ _One minute_.”

Baggins swallows and his hands start to sweat.

* * *

Thorin can taste bitterness in the back of his throat. Three more people have died. He can feel Kili's disgusted, terrified, trembling eyes stuck to his face and he can almost hear Fili breathe, shallow. But he stares straight ahead, at a cackling Goblin. 

Dwalin, still safe and undetected behind that door, curses under his breath. “On the count of three, we go in.”

“Sounds like a _plan_ , Sweetcheeks.

“Fuck off, Rison.”

Nori clicks his tongue in mock disapproval.

“You won't do anything of the sort.”

Nori rolls his eyes, sighs loudly and turns around. G is smiling at him, holding a gun with a suppressor screwed onto it. 

“Do you _always_ do that?”

“Do what, Nori Rison?”

“Sneak up on people and ruin the fun.”

G nudges at the pile of bodies, “Looks like you've had your fair share of _fun_ already. Now, let's go get Oakenshield out of this mess and save innocent people from being slaughtered, shall we?”

* * *

Bilbo breathes deeply and cracks his knuckles.

“The clock is ticking, _Burglar_.”

“Just give me a _moment_.”

“We already gave you enough.”

“Just a _moment_.” Bilbo whimpers, as the program runs. _Comeoncomeoncomeoncomeoncomeononononon_ he begs, and then manages to find the first exploit. _Come on_ , and Gollum draws nearer, perching on the side of his chair, _come on come on come on_. Oh God please let me live, please let me live.

Please let me live, _please_ \- the error message appears and Bilbo lets out a sharp breath of air, twisting his head to the side to smirk in triumph. 

Gollum is inches from his face, teeth bared, hands nearly wrapped around his neck- they're so quiet. They're so horribly, horribly quiet. And Bilbo isn't even _thinking anymore_ , he scrambles backwards and his back hits the floor with the chair. Up he stands, terrified, mind blank, lurching forward for God knows what reason, before Gollum can pull themselves up (they've fallen too) he's grabbing the small USB key by the lanyard, ripping it out of the port.

“ _YOU THIEF_ -” is just a shrill scream ringing in his ears, because he's up, grabbing his gun, throwing it into his backpack, he's up with the key tight in his hand and he's lurching for the door as Gollum chases after him. And his leg hurts, the twisted ankle still throbs, but he can't think, and before he knows it he's back into the street and running as fast as his foot will allow him. The daylight burns his eyes, he turns a corner hearing feet tear across the asphalt behind him, Gollum's low heavy breathing.

Bilbo nearly trips and falls- and that's when he sees the cab.

“TAXI!” he yells out, not caring about the bicycle that nearly runs him over. The black car slows down in front of him and he dashes in as fast as he can, slams the door a bit too hard. 

“Please go,” he whimpers. “Now! I'm being chased.”

“Do you want me to call the police?” the cabbie asks as he drives off. 

“No! No, please don't.”

He's never liked policemen.

“Where to then, sir?”

Bilbo takes a few more seconds to catch his breath, he swallows and his throat hurts from the running. He's about to say his home address when his mobile phone rings. It's an unknown number.

“Hello?”

Blimey, Baggins, I'm happy to hear you're alive.”

It's Bofur's cheerful and reassuring Irish accent that greets him. Bilbo stuffs the key into his pocket as Broadbeam goes on, “We've managed to get ourselves out of all of that mess, by the way. May I interest you in catching up with us?”

_He's just not letting go, is he?_ Bilbo thinks. But the part in him, the same arrogance and courage and will to stand up against any difficulty that his mother had (she was known for it, and she was beautiful because of it) is getting louder by the day (and there's the thought of Thorin Oakenshield's scars in his mind, too, the desperation of when he answered Smaug's call, the rage and disappointment when he burst into that warehouse in Cambodia to find it empty- Bilbo pities and feels sorry for the man, and knows he might be able to help. Now more than ever).

But Bilbo's about to say no. 

“We're at the old Goldmünze abandoned factory, just out of town, if you're still interested.”

And then, not at all surprisingly, he says yes.


	20. iv

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: brief mention of animal cruelty towards the end.

"What in God's name's  _happened to your arm-_ "

Elrond's staring at Thranduil with a look split between total annoyance and utter dismay, eyes focused on the sling his arm is in.

"-and why are you here?  _Why are you here_?"

"I... work here?"

Elrond visibly frowns at Thranduil.

" _I gave you a week off_. Lindir's substituting you."

The other man sarcastically waves at Greenleaf from the chair he's sitting in behind Elrond (he sure hasn't forgotten Thranduil's telling off from the week before), and Thranduil narrows his eyes at him. Elrond glares at both. Thranduil sets his paper cup of coffee down before it completely scalds his "good" hand- "I was feeling cramped, all cooped up at home."

Elrond arches an eyebrow, "Cramped?" 

"Yeah. Cramped."

“You've been home for less than a day.”

Thranduil shrugs and Peredhel rolls his eyes and gestures at a nearby chair, "Just don't make too much noise. Are you drunk?"

"Do I look drunk?" Thranduil asks as he sits.

Elrond doesn't care or tricks himself into thinking he doesn't, "Just don't vomit over everything." The bitter comment resonates in Thranduil's brain and rockets between his eyes, hitting the bone: his temples throb and his hand automatically rushes to the dogtags in his pocket. He managed to beg and whine them back from Smaug, and he's been clinging to them ever since. The reason itself escapes him, save for the fact that they feel strangely tangible in a world that's quickly become fish swimming behind a bulletproof glass. He is a solid four centimeters away from the rest of the world, and it leaves him even number and colder than he already is.

He misses his kid. He misses his kid like _crazy_ , but he's also glad Legolas doesn't have to face his father's slow descent into madness, the fact that he's managed (up to now, at least) to keep himself all tightly shut inside, seams nearly breaking but not quite, means nothing at all: he can feel his organs and his blood and his bile overlapping and his mind bloating and begging to burst, but for now at least he's managed to keep it all quiet and nice and at bay (if you don't count vomiting all over crime scenes, that is).

“What's on the menu?” he asks, nudging at the projector remote Elrond's holding.

“Shooting down at the Tunnels Hotel this morning. A few dead, we're waiting on more info from the science team. Nasty business.”

“Surveillance tapes?”

“What we were able to retrieve.”

“Oh let me guess, the rest has gone _missing_.”

Thranduil giggles and takes a sip of his coffee, eyeing Lindir who simply glances at him and decides to ignore him. In the meantime, Elrond's started playing the feed. And Thranduil chokes himself, coughs a few times, takes a wet, sickly breath (Lindir glares at him again) and then wheezes through his teeth, “ _Is that Oakenshield_?”

Elrond furrows his brow, Lindir taps with his pencil on the table, “It is.” is what Peredhel says, and what they see is Thorin's back to the camera, gun pointed at his neck, man talking to him. Elrond quietly groans and glances around the video for any signs of G: he figuratively breathes a sigh of relief upon seeing there are none, until the man talking to Thorin (he knows the face is familiar and makes a mental note to check on who it is) shoots a girl in a pretty flower dress for no apparent reason (there's no audio, and Elrond curses obsolete systems).

“Oh, God.”

Lindir pulls back and takes a deep breath- despite having worked in the force for nearly twenty years, he's still squeamish when it comes to certain things: innocent girls being slaughtered is definitely one of them. Elrond blinks and lets out a strained sigh. Thranduil just lowers his eyes.

“Why does something tell me she's not gonna be the only one?” Lindir mumbles, somewhat bitterly.

And, of course, he's right. When it's clear that a third person's about to get shot, Elrond simply fast forwards past. The footage speeds up, things happen in an indiscernible flurry, Thranduil yelps: “Hold up hold up hold up, go back-”

Peredhel glances over at him and complies, going a few moments backwards, to a door behind the shooter opening, and the shooter being shot in the head by a gun pressed to the back of his neck with no warning- and then behind G (because it's G who's just bolted in and Elrond curses under his breath) Nori and Bofur crawl out (Thranduil glances at Elrond who just miserably nods, _yes_ , _they're caught in this too_ ), with Dwalin following them close, wrangler holding back the attack dogs with a leash that's ready to snap, his brother trailing behind. There's people Elrond doesn't recognize (it's Ori and Dori) and then Thorin's flipping around and snapping the thug who's holding the gun's wrist, punching him in the face as he falls back screaming. He slams the one holding Kili against a wall, hand tight around his neck, Dwalin connects knuckledusters to the other's jaw as Fili throws himself out of the way, as Nori slits a throat from ear to ear-- the footage is fuzzy but Thranduil knows that M.O. far too well, he's analyzed it for hours and hours at a time, seen it over and over in video footage, he remembers when they found Chambers' body, his pale face like a punch to the gut (what'd that kid ever done to _anyone_?) and it's funny how things will always leave a knot in your stomach, how your brain connects and shatters bridges) smirks when the blood soaks his hands, and Elrond stops the video all together. He knows how this'll end, anyway. He knows who he's dealing with.

He gives himself a moment to breathe.

"Okay. We're fucked.”

“What do you mean _fucked_?” Lindir asks- he's a little bit on the pale side, and Thranduil wonders if he'll have to grab the waste bin behind Elrond's desk for him to vomit in.

“Do you see that man?” Elrond points at G, frozen in the act of ushering the terrified hotel guests outside, “do you see him? And you saw what just happened there, right?”

“That man cut through the other's throat like butter.”

“Yeah. Yeah. And _this_ guy right here. This-” he clenches and unclenches his fists and calms himself enough to finish talking- “ _this man is Oakenshield's guarantee that whatever happens, whatever he does, he is completely. Utterly. Fucking. Safe._ He can break every law on this godforsaken planet and no one will _dare_ lay a finger on him.”

“Wait, what?”

“Because this man right _here_ isn't even bloody supposed to exist for ninety-nine point nine-hundred ninety-nine percent of the population. So congratulations, we can just throw out the goddamn rest of the footage, it's worthless.”

“But Oakenshield ki-”

“Yeah, guess what? It _doesn't matter_.”

Elrond rubs a hand over an exhausted, throbbing and pained eye.

“And now, if you'll excuse me, I have a phone call to make.”

* * *

Peredhel sighs to himself and leans against the men's room sink. He rinses his face and stares at himself in the mirror: what stares back is a tired man with hair that's just starting to go grey and deep, violet bags under his eyes. He should take a vacation, he thinks, and then dials G's number.

It rings a few times, then the agent picks up.

“Olórin, what a _wonderful_ job you did over there at the Tunnels.”

He uses his real name and his voice drips vicious angry sarcasm.

“Don't use my real name.”

“We need to talk. Possibly not over a bloody phone.”

“I don't have the time.”

“No, listen. I don't- he catches himself before blurting out _give a fuck_ \- I don't _care_ if The Lady's got your back, this is serious. You just- I mean. You. You killed. You murdered someone. _In broad daylight_. In front of dozens of people. You can't just-”

“ _Peredhel_.”

“No, you _listen_.” Elrond snarls. “ _Please_. This is getting out of control.”

He regrets sounding so desperate.

There's a few seconds of silence on the other side, “Just tell me where you are, and I'll come meet you?”

A few more moments.

“Sure. We're at the Goldmünze buildings, right out of town.”

You mean the factory? Funny, a building of his blew up yesterday.”

“I'm sure of that.”

But the tension in Elrond's forehead relaxes a bit, he swallows and it nearly doesn't hurt.

* * *

Thranduil buries his face in his palm and sighs. He rubs his temples and stands at the bottom of the backstairs that lead to the parking lot and thinks about how he's ended up eavesdropping on his boss and calling a notorious assassin and feeling instantly relieved due to the fact that he's just condemned Thorin Oakenshield and everyone with him to certain death.

But he's done his job. He's done his bloody fucking job. He'd allow his knees to give out, if he could.

“Thranduil?”

Greenleaf jumps and spins around to find Tauriel standing at the top of the stairs. He notices she's wearing a white v-neck shirt that shows the dusting of freckles on her collarbone, and immediately stares at his feet, swallows. She furrows her brow.

“What's happened to your arm?”

Greenleaf shrugs, “Got bitten.”

“ _Elk_ did that?”

She walks down a few steps and he quickly changes the subject, “How's the Von Dunedain case going?”

Sylvan shakes her head and clicks her tongue, “Dead end. You know, by this point I'm pretty sure that kid just _doesn't want_ to be found.”

Thranduil smirks and runs a hand through his hair.

“Can I offer you coffee, Thranduil?”

“No.”

He knows coffee would lead to talking and he's not strong enough to talk right now.

“Can I at least ask if you're okay?”

“No.”

“But are you?” she asks anyway. She sounds worried and it punches Thranduil straight in the face, he bleeds guilt from his broken nose because it's the only thing he can do. He looks at her (she's so tiny compared to him, the top of her head barely reaching his chin) and walks past her, back up the stairs, and answers, with a scared little glance, “No. I'm not.”

“Then let me help?”

“No.”

And then he shuts the door behind himself.

* * *

The cab pulls up in an empty parking lot, full of weeds and pigeons and a stray tabby cat straddling its way through it, undisturbed. Bilbo pays the cabby, makes sure his recently-acquired USB key is carefully hidden, and steps out of the car.

He's met by bofur sitting on a partially-dismantled carcass of what probably used to be a car. He's smoking, of course, and once he catches a glimpse of Bilbo, he waves him over.

“Baggins, glad you made it all in one piece!”

Bilbo ignores the fact that Broadbeam's fingers seem suspiciously dirty with dried blood: he's not going to ask where it comes from, not right now. He just awkwardly smiles at him as Bofur ushers him into the closest building and is greeted by Kili and Fili's excited yelping.

“Holy shit, you're _alive_.”

Bilbo nods and smiles a little at Fee, “Yep. All in one piece.”

“That's. You know. _Great_.”

Bilbo stares at the blond and feels the awkward silence creep in and hit them both full force in the chest, “How'd you do that?”

It's Thorin: looking tired and weary and suspicious of everyone.

“Well. Good luck, mainly. And outside help.” Bilbo mumbles, glancing for a second at Bofur. Bofur smirks back, as if to say it's all fine, he owes him nothing (he owes him more than he thinks, in fact. At least in Bofur's eyes- he owes him a few answers, and maybe a finger, and maybe a magic trick or two). G's prowling around, phone in hand, looking as weary as Thorin if not more.

“We'll wait for Peredhel until-”

Then front door bursts open, and it takes the company a second too late to understand what's happening, because out come the flamethrowers. And fire licks the air around them, and Bilbo has no idea what's going on, and he's out of the frying pan and into the fire, he thinks (what an old-fashioned way of putting it indeed) and before he knows it he's cowering with the rest in a corner.

G looks horrified, as if everything he's ever planned up to now has just fallen apart. He whips his phone out and dials something furiously.

**Emergency Code: MOTH.**

“What the _fuck_ is going on, G?” Thorin yells over the roar of the flames, before turning around as they force him and the others deeper and deeper into a corner. He's clutching his gun and swallowing his fear.

The smoke clears, Ori coughs, Nori prowls around him like a wolf protecting its pack, Dori shoves him out of the way like a mother protecting her pups. Dwalin stays close to Thorin, Balin watches the two and for a moment thinks of thirty years earlier, for no apparent reason at all. He thinks of thirty years earlier and wishes he could drag those two boys away from each other and into his arms. Protect them for good.

Protect Thorin from Thrain. Protect Dwalin from Thorin.

(But then the smoke clears for good, and Thorin thinks he might vomit).

“ _No_.”

What he does feel is Dwalin's hand dig into his shoulder, what he is marginally aware of is that he shrugs it off, what he doesn't know is that his stomach's just been kicked out, the rug's just been pulled out from under his feet, the bile's just needing to hit the back of his throat. He doesn't know these things because for a moment he is absent, he is floating, he is not here.

For a moment he basks in the failure and in the sensation of dirt floor against feverish sweaty skin, mouth crusted with vomit, and then he's back on the ground.

And his hands shake. _And his hands shake_.

“You're _dead_.” he yells.

Azog smiles and holds Alecto, Megaera and Tisiphone back by their short leash, their jaws snapping in the air. He is holding a linoleum knife.

“You're supposed to be _dead_!” Thorin yells louder. He's crumbling. He's crumbling, he's in a dream, he is not real, this isn't happening.

Azog takes a few steps forward as his henchmen gather round behind him, next to him. The dogs growl, teeth bared. They're beautiful, in a way. Visceral like death come knocking.

“I  _KILLED YOU_ ,” Thorin pleads. Bilbo (shoved, as per usual, behind Bofur) and Fili and Kili glance over at him, and Bilbo is unaccustomed to see him so fragile so fast, Fili and Kili thought they didn't have to ever see him in such a state of desperate empty again. But he's bleeding again, his wrists are slit again, there's a bathtub full of red again, and all Fili thinks is _You'll have to pick up the pieces afterwards_. and he doesn't know if he's more scared about what might come afterwards or of the fact that that is the first thing he thinks about.

Thorin doesn't even know if it's real. Is anything real? Is anything here at all. It's happening so fast.

Azog's alive. _please make this stop i never asked for this please tear me away please tear me out_

_and you can_

_tear yourself out_

**_you can_ **

_Someone sold us out_ , Gandalf thinks. And clenches his teeth and whispers “Come on Gwaihir come on come on come on you _bastard_ get your ass here.”

This wasn't supposed to happen. This doesn't even make any sense.

And then it _does_ happen.

Because Thorin screams, and Dwalin tries to grab his arm, and Azog lets go of his dogs, and they pounce as Thorin runs forward armed with nothing but his fists and a gun, and Tisiphone buries her fangs into his arm, Alecto goes for the jugular (she misses, skits a few feet and runs back) and Megaera prowls around, ready to take her chance. Thorin howls, and it happens so fast as the dog lets go of his arm and he stumbles back for a moment and his vision is swimming, he wanted this he needed this he took his chance _please empty me- please empty me, please empty me._

Azog walks towards Thorin, Thorin that's on his knees, clenching his bleeding arm, Thorin that can't breathe through the darkness and pain overlapping his vision- and he grabs him by the hair, pulls him up.

The nife slices through his stomach, left to right, and Azog doesn't even give him any time to swallow or think or realize what's going on- and in fact, he doesn't allow anyone that luxury. “Don't fight it. Don't fight it. Let it come.” he whispers, and then Thorin falls back, and pain devours his body the way flames would devour a single sheet of paper.

He stumbles back and not a single part of his brain registers Dwalin screaming his name and Kili rushing to hold him back, to avoid him getting murdered too, and Kee's shaking from head to toe, terrified (there is a fundamental gut-wrenching difference between wanting your uncle dead and watching him die). But Thorin does glance back and their eyes do meet, and despite the pain Oakenshield does think (a blissful thought, he realizes) _It's over, I'm free_.

If it weren't for the mesmerizing fact that a fraction of an instant later, Bilbo Baggins, Tesco employee, once a hacker, still somewhat a hacker, armed with a small rifle given to him by a serial killer, launches himself forward, and places himself standing over Thorin's body, gun pointed at the three wolves. At Azog.

“ _You don't touch him_.” Bilbo hears himself say, much to his very own surprise.

 _Why am I doing this_ , he thinks. _Why am I bloody doing this_.

Azog laughs in his face, “I've been waiting twelve years. Get out of my _way_.”

“ _No_.”

Bilbo scares himself. But he's not going to let Thorin die, not just this moment. Not right now. He's too desperate to die alone like a dog, bleeding out on a floor. He deserves to bring Smaug down and tear the world apart as he does so. He deserves it, because he has nothing else left.

It's the last thing Thorin hears- before his blue eyes flicker back and meet Dwalin's blue-grey ones brimmed with desperation, and then they go out, roll back, he shuts them. Blessed darkness falls over him like a waterfall.

 _This is it_ , he thinks, a last thought before nothing- if it weren't for the fact that Dwalin's running along with Fili and Kili against Azog and his men and Balin curses the world and his miserable failure of a life, and Kili hits Alecto in the muzzle with a metal pipe he's just found close by. But it's Dwalin who wants to tear their heads off, he wants to watch them burn, _Not him you bastards. Not him. Not him. Not **him**._

The first sniper hits Azog's thugs in the back of the head, which explodes and Fili yelps, stumbles back. The second does the same to one next to him. G lets out a sigh of relief, heartbeat growing considerably slower.

And then the bikes rush in, and it's all so fucking _surreal_ Bilbo can't help but stare in awe _._ Gwaihir hops off of his, Tisiphone snarls at him and pulls back, ready to pounce but he's quicker, she jumps at him and he stabs, she recoils, Azog readies himself to hit but Gwaihir's already turned around. His fist connects with the other's nose, it shatters, he trips back and this buys them all time.

Gwaihir glances towards G who looks deeply relieved and then rushes to Thorin and Dwalin does too, whilst chaos explodes as the rest of E.A.G.L.E. join in on the mess, and as G hops on a bike behind a leather-clad, muscular man, the rest of the company does the same, save for Gwaihir, who's currently helping Thorin.

The dark-skinned man furrows his brow at Thorin's wounds, and gingerly picks him up, Dwalin helping him, blood seeping through Oakenshield's shirt and onto his hands. Thorin's head lolls back- he's unconscious. Dwalin swallows down the anguish and helps Gwaihir put Thorin on his bike.

“It's bad,” he mutters and Dwalin makes a face because he _knows_. To his left Fili's hopping behind a complete stranger onto a bike he has no idea where it comes from, and so's Kili (who's crying, hysterical). The only ones left are himself and Bilbo, and Bilbo swallows, worried, but then Bofur urges him on as he shoots one of Azog's thugs between the eyes on a speeding motorcycle. Bilbo has no choice.

He hops onto a motorcycle and holds on for dear life, and they zoom out just as Azog manages to collect himself, and the three holding flamethrowers turn them on, luckily, a second too late, no one gets burned. There's smoke and there's rage and there's Gundabad's blood-chilling scream of absolute rage.

Thorin's head rests against Gwaihir's shoulder, and they have to pass through secondary roads to avoid being seen.

And only then does Bilbo realize he's shaking.


	21. v

[ message ] : They say you're good at ripping heads off. - The Dragon

[ message ] : I'm good at ripping off more than just heads. - Spider

[ message ] : How much for fifteen? - The Dragon

[ message ] : Depends on the risk. - Spider

[ message ] : Not into fun, sweetheart? I thought you loved thrills. - The Dragon

[ message ] : Prison changes you. - Spider

[ message ] : Was me getting you out of there not enough of an incentive? You owe this to me. Fifteen. Name your price. - The Dragon

[ message ] : Who're the poor unfortunate souls? - Spider

[ message ] : Thorin Charles Oakenshield, plus friends. - The Dragon

[ message ] : Friends like? - Spider

[ message ] : Friends like Olórin Mithrandir. - The Dragon

[ message ] : I'll do it. - Spider

[ message ] : That's my girl. - The Dragon

* * *

_dirt_

_a hot breath dirt shoved down his_

_eyes bleeding eyes vomiting hands that shake he's crawling through dirt suddenly a breath of darkness blink_

_don't cry._

_if you cry they'll kill you._

_blink._

_don't breathe if they breathe they'll kill you skin against skin grey-blue eyes laughing vomit crusting his teeth blood he grips for purchase on his back moans when he buries his_

_dirt_

_nails digging her taste on his lips his hands, nails torn, bleeding_

_it's when the_

_knife cuts through his back that he knows he's going to_

_the dirt dirt dirt dirt the screams- don'tscreamthey'llkillyouifyouscreamthey'lllaughyouareabeastdon'tscreamthey'llkillyouthey'llkillyou_

_bled dry bleed me kiss me fuck me i need you_

_the bitter sensation of waking up and not being dead yet. it begins again it begins_

_free me free me free m-_ Thorin is dragged into consciousness and the first thing he feels is air vomited within his lungs and the next thing he knows is that he's coughing spitting heaving, someone holding the back of his head so he doesn't hurt himself or fall. A calloused palm against his naked chest, whilst the room he's in cascades, drop by drop, back into view.

“Easy. C'mon. Easy.”

 _Scottish_ is the first thing his brain tells him.

He leans into the touch despite himself, swallows because he doesn't have anything else to do. Thorin shuts his eyes and is suddenly aware of the bandages constricting his stomach. He glances down at them, notices one of his arms is bandaged too (ugly flashbacks, Fili not looking him in the eye, Fili so scared of what he's done) and then he looks up, and Dwalin's holding his head.

“Hey.” MacFundin whispers. Thorin grimaces at him (his tongue feels thick, too thick to speak) and lies back down, finds out he's staring at a ceiling he doesn't recognize.

They're quiet for a few moments and as he looks to the side Thorin notices there's an armchair with a blanket thrown on it next to the bed he's lying in. He knows what it means and his heart sinks through his chest, falls past his spine, tears through the mattress, and flops onto the floor under him. He feels guilty.

“How long have I-?” he asks, somewhat wary of the answer.

Dwalin shrugs as he steps back, “Two days, give or take.”

 _Jesus_.

Where are we?”

“T.R.N. More or less. Beorn MacMathúin's home. She works for them.”

Dwalin fails to mention that up to two days earlier, he was convinced Bryanna "Beorn" MacMathúin was a bounty hunter. It turns out she's an undercover agent, and the fact doesn't make MacFundin all too comfortable).

Dwalin fixes the blanket, folding it, a gesture Oakenshield remembers from another life and it leaves him with what could be mistaken for nausea pooling in the lower part of his belly, making swallowing a bit too uncomfortable. MacFundin places the blanket on the back of the chair and stares at his hands. He sighs, loud enough for Thorin to hear, unintentionally loud enough for him to hear the tiredness and fear hidden underneath. The air around them is thick with energy, pent-up words Dwalin's too scared to say: he just doesn't know what to do anymore.

He's never really known what to do with Thorin, but there's an uncomfortable abyss between 1982 and 2013 and the past few weeks have made it all the more evident (Dwalin blames himself because he got caught so unawares despite all the years that have gone by and all that's happened). Thorin sits up and scowls at him when Dwalin tries to tell him to lie back down.

“If there's something you need to say, just say it.”

Thorin still knows him well enough to tell when he needs to talk. And Dwalin rolls his eyes, sighs and lets his shoulders slump before muttering, “That back there was a suicide attempt.”

Tiny and defenseless and terrified: the answer is _yes it was_ and he wishes it wasn't.

It hurts more than he thought it would.

Thorin stares at him for a few seconds and then his head briskly snaps to stare at the wall, he buries his teeth in his lip, doesn't offer Dwalin the chance to look him in the face, the luxury of facing him. Thorin isn't made like that. He hardly ever gives, you have to dig to find what you want, and you're lucky if you do.

“Don't be ridiculous.”

The defenses are so thick Dwalin wishes he could tear through them with his fists alone, but he can't- he has to patiently unravel and unwrap to help but his skills are rusty, he hasn't done this in so long he soon realizes he's lost his way, and there's no red string to follow to find his way back through the labyrinth. There's no Ariadne to help him, he was his own Ariadne and then he lost his chance and now he's gripping for purchase on slippery rocks. They fell apart with such ease, and those are the hardest things to fix.

He doesn't know Thorin anymore and Thorin doesn't know him and this fact is horribly sealed when Thorin stands up, flinches, grabs the blanket to cover his shoulders and as he walks past him, Dwalin does nothing to stop him.

* * *

“Oh. Okay. You go and do that.”

Fili sighs and leans against the jamb of the kitchen door he's just opened, looking for something to feed Thorin. His brother's lying face first on the table, both hands knotted in his hair, a half-empty bottle of something next to him, “you go and get drunk.”

“I'm not. I'm not drunk.”

“No. Of course not.”

Fili wipes his mouth with his hand and shuts his eyes for a moment to control his frustration. He misses Becca suddenly, violently, the way her eyes look almost green when the right light hits them, the way she always knows what to whisper at three AM when he can't sleep and he's so scared to live he's curled up on the bathroom floor (it had only happened once, and she'd crouched next to the door right outside, her cheek pressed to the wood of it as he felt the cold of the tiles against his face and she talked him out of it, slowly, quietly, trying not to cry, until he'd cracked the door open an inch and she'd wrestled the bottle of pills out of his hand), the way she is unapologetic about everything she does, running with wolves and basking in the pride it gives her.

“ _Kee_.” Fili pleads. He thought he was _okay_. He thought he was clean, he _had_ _been clean_ for a while, hadn't he? Kili would never lie to him. The thought of Kili lying to him sounds ridiculous. The thought of Kili lying to him right now sounds like the type of reality you shove as far away from you as possible and you ignore until it runs you over like a truck runs over a deer staring at the headlights of what's supposed to be a squeaky-clean, perfect life. Fili sits across from his brother, who doesn't budge, and grabs his hand. Kili pulls it away and pulls himself up.

“I'm _fine_.” he snarls, so much like his uncle, because he doesn't want anyone to know, ever ever, despite the fact that everyone saw him crying, that he got so scared earlier, so fucking bloody scared of losing Thorin that he lost control over himself and that made him even more terrified and that somehow he had to put things back to normal and fix himself. And he's learned only one way that does its job properly.

Fili pulls his hands back, “All right, you're fine. Stand up then.” and leans back against the chair he's sitting in, palms open in a mock invitation.

Kili rolls his eyes at him but Fili isn't in for the compromise, this time, he's in for the rage and the disappointment, “C'mon, get up. Walk a straight line.”

“ _Fili_.”

But the eldest bolts up, both hands on the table, “You _lied_ to me. You said you'd gotten clean. That what's her name? Alex?”

 _His name_ , Kili corrects his brother without saying a word and inside curls up on himself even tighter.

"You told me that she was _helping_.”

Kili sternly stares at the table and doesn't answer for a few seconds.

“I got scared, that's all. Needed to clear my head.” he then whispers.

“By getting drunk?”

“It _helps_ , all right?”

“Oh, really, _self destruction_ -”

“Listen, this shit coming from a _cutter_ is pretty fucking hypocritical, don't you think?”

Fili pulls back all the way and he looks like an entirely different person, all of a sudden, eyes brimming with hurt, and Kili knows he's gone one step too far.

“Fee, Fee, listen, I didn't mean-”

But Fili's out of the kitchen before Kili can finish, and he slams the door on the way.

* * *

Thorin takes a few tentative, painful steps into the living room. It's a house that smells of the wood it's made of and of something earthy, familiar, like a forest after rain or nights spent reading books with a flashlight.

“Slept well?”

He doesn't recognize the voice: a huge, tall woman with dark eyes and muddy brown hair is roughly petting a tibetan mastiff whilst sitting on one of the couches. Thorin swallows and clenches the scratchy blanket tighter over his shoulders, smiles and glances at the huge dog that's happily rolling on the floor. His abdomen hurts, and the pain is spreading to where his kidneys are.

“Her name's Laika. Her sister is Sasha.”

Oakenshield smiles at the dog and wipes his hand on his pants before outstretching it and Beorn grabs it.

“Thank you.” Thorin mutters. Some part of him wishes she hadn't saved his life, but that part is quickly silenced.

Beorn just smiles, “Anything for G's friends. Care for something to eat?”

She offers Thorin a carrot from the bowl that's sitting on the coffee table. Thorin gingerly takes it, eyeing the girl's tattoos: a sleeve on her left arm made up completely of bears, sleek silhouettes of the animal in various positions, snarling, prowling, roaring at each other. The sleeve continues onto her back, bits and pieces visible through MacMathúin's tank top. The black and tan dog stares at Thorin from the floor she's lying on, observing his interactions with her owner and he warily glances at her. The sunlight coming in from the door leading to the patio make the dust around her sparkle, and it's as he stares at her that Thorin catches a glimpse of Bilbo, sitting alone in the garden, doing what looks like smoking.

Thorin turns to Beorn and excuses himself, stepping outside. Bilbo's startled by the footsteps and he turns around and furrows his brow the moment he realizes it's Thorin.

“Some...thing tells me you're not supposed to be up and about.”

Thorin shrugs and flinches when he sits down next to Baggins. He focuses his gaze on the grass in front of him and swallows ( _you've had worse done to you_ ), brow furrowed until the throb in his belly quiets down and he can think clearly. He smiles at Bilbo and notices who is definitely Sasha sleeping in a shaded bit of the patio.

“Yeah I've been trying to. Ignore the dog.”

Thorin arches an eyebrow quizzically, Bilbo hunches his shoulders.

“I'm not too fond of big ones.”

Oakenshield nods and picks on a bit of grass, tugging it and threading it through his fingers. He carefully picks the words to say and then quickly blurts out, “I'm sorry.”

Bilbo turns towards him, startled.

“Excuse me?”

“I'm. Sorry. For what I did and said. For how I treated you earlier.” Thorin smirks bitterly and Bilbo finally catches a glimpse of the scars on his arm- well, on one, since the other is tightly bandaged. They are, unmistakably, scars carved to end one's life, a suicide attempt gone awry. Bilbo wonders how old they are, and how much Thorin regrets them. The truth is he hates them and despises them and finds them humiliating, but the lack of medication is starting to make him wish they'd have worked. And he hadn't felt this way so strongly in nearly ten years.

Thorin stares at the dog behind Bilbo, “and I wanted to thank you for going up against Azog. It takes a lot of courage.”

Bilbo shrugs.

“Or stupidity.”

Baggins smiles at Thorin and tests his luck: he doesn't know how Oakenshield might react, but it's worth the try. Thorin smiles back (it's the first time Bilbo's ever seen him smile) and, much to Bilbo's absolute startled surprise, pats him on the shoulder.

“Well I guess you've got a little bit of both, Baggins. Not that it's a bad thing.”

They're quiet a little longer. And then Thorin asks the second question, the one thing that's been gnawing away at his brain:

"Why did you come back? I mean, when Broadbeam called. You could've just said no, gone back home."

Bilbo stares at Thorin and then just shrugs. "I don't know. I guess I knew I had to."

"But you didn't."

"But I  _did_. You see... I'm. I'm all right. I've got my home and my family and my job and I'm... happy. I'm happy with everything I have. And you on the other hand, and I'm not pitying you, don't get me wrong. But you've just had. So much shit? Thrown at you. You know. Well, you _do_ know. - he glances over at the scar on Thorin's wrist and Thorin notices - And I just thought that maybe. Maybe I could help you do this. Because I can tell how much you need to do this. How much it'll fix things for you."

Baggins nods both to himself and to Thorin and Thorin tries to smile.

"So I just thought I'd help you see this to the end. In any way I can."

* * *

G scrambles for his phone, somewhat annoyed. He's been relishing in the two days of calm that staying at Beorn's has allowed him, wary of the fact that things got a little out of hand at the Goldmünze building, wary of the fact that he let things get completely out of his control.

He sighs as he answers, “Galadriel, don't worry, I'm fine. No one got hurt, except for Oaken-”

“Shelob's been reactivated.”

Her voice is on point, icy-thin and terrified.

G stares out of the window at Bilbo and Thorin without really seeing them, fully aware that his mouth's hanging open.

“ _What_?”

“ _Shelob's been reactivated_.”


	22. vi

_He hates English weather._

Simply put. He despises it to the bone.

He hates English weather, Elk the Dog, Galadriel Alqualondë and Olórin Mithrandir (kind of).

Right now, he has to deal with three out of those four things (and one of them isn't an over-zealous, affectionate, slobbering canine).

Elrond grimaces at his phone and curses himself for having said yes to The Lady. He already has too much on his hands right now - without counting the fact that two days earlier he'd gone to the Goldmünze building and found it completely and utterly deserted (save for a few disgruntled looking pigeons). His patience towards G and his spy-novel bullshit is growing dangerously thin.

Peredhel sighs to himself and glances at the run-down apartment building behind him and frowns at it.

“This is getting ridiculous.” he tells himself and slips on his sunglasses as the clouds overhead slowly creep back, for the millionth time, to cover the sun: a nauseating, pain-inducing game of shadows that is making Elrond want to crawl home, take a painkiller and tell whichever of his kids happens to be there not to wake him until the next morning. But since he is, per his own definition, a much too nice asshole, he taps a foot against the concrete, shifts uncomfortably on the bench as he unfolds his paper and stares at the pigeon strutting in front of him, who stares back.

“I envy you.” he mutters to the bird, who, much to nobody's surprise, doesn't reply.

“You get to eat bread all day and nothing ever ruins anything.”

The pigeon takes off in flight and leaves Elrond alone. He stares at the empty space it left behind, blinking as his jaw feels as if it's being continuously perforated by a particularly strong drill. He mutters to himself, moves his sunglasses up his forehead to massage his temples and decides to count to ten before getting up and catching a cab ride back to the Yard.

Which is exactly when a car pulls up to the curb next to him (he catches a glimpse of O'Rien in the driver's seat) and out come The Lady and G. He stands up, ready to snarl at them, but then the words die before he can even speak them.

He's never seen either of them look so pale or nervous.

Elrond furrows his brow as the two march past him and head for what looks like the back of the complex he was sitting in front of. The Lady's heels click-clack against the asphalt as she glances behind her and nudges at Elrond to follow suite, which he does, and then asks: “What's going on?”

“Do you remember, some fifteen years ago, that huge operation both the Secret Service, the FBI and the Yard took part in?” G answers with a question and for some reason it ticks Elrond off more than it should.

Peredhel furrows his brow and swallows. “Of _course I do_ , G. Christ. Gilgalad and Thranduil's father both-”

“Yes. That one.”

G doesn't give him the time to say  _died_ , and Elrond is somewhat, partially, grateful for it. Certain things make him feel too guilty. Certain things have ugly names like “you forgot to bring flowers” and “please don't die, please” spoken to bleeping monitors and a body in a coma.

“Apparently, there've been some... complications.”

Elrond stops in his tracks and looks positively unamused: “ _You're following R's lead_.”

“Yes, we are,” G nonchalantly replies, and then steps over as The Lady slips her heels off, readying herself to do something that looks much too much like clambering over the rusty old fence and into the garden. There's a  _DANGER! No trespassing_  sign right next to her. Elrond deems it worthless to point that out.

“Help me darling, please?” she asks G, who readily offers his knee as a support to allow her to fling herself over the metal railing and into the garden. She flinches as something in her back hurts a little more than it used to, fixes her jacket and graciously accepts the shoes G is handing her through the bars.

Elrond's shoulders slump, he pushes his glasses down the bridge of his nose enough for them to be able to see the annoyance in his eyes- “You're not  _actually_  doing this, are you?”

“No, we're doing this  _with you_.”

“Oh, for Goodness' sake-  _I can't babysit you all the bloody time_.”

G doesn't reply and clambers over the fence to reach Galadriel, and the pair stares at Peredhel. He stares back.

Elrond sighs loudly, glances behind his shoulder, makes sure no one sees him, rolls his eyes and clumsily follows them. He curses between his teeth as his sunglasses fall off his face and he has to dig for them through weeds for a few seconds- the throb in his head is worsening as his exasperation grows. He suspects he'll be crawling on the floor by the end of the afternoon.

He puts the shades back on and hastily falls into step next to G, “So  _what_  exactly is going on? And what exactly are we doing here?”

"One of the country's most dangerous and vicious criminals, she goes by the code name The Spider, recently escaped Broadmoor Hospital-”

“I know who Shelob Örümcek is. We think it was an outside job, but it's been impossible-”

“It was, and whoever got her out happens to very much want her back in business as quickly as possible. The last decent signal we were able to pick up came from here.” The Lady interjects briskly, pulling a small handgun from out of her purse. Elrond blinks at it and for a second thinks about the fact that he left his in the top drawer of his office desk. He wonders if whatever (whoever?) they will find (if there'll be anyone) would be scared off if he were to throw his Blackberry at them.

G's gun, obviously, makes an appearance, with its ever-present suppressor.

“Take this.” he says, handing Elrond a knife.

Peredhel stares at it and sighs, “Why me, though? Why not Haldir? Or S?”

“Because Haldir has other things to do. And we trust _you_ , not S.” Galadriel replies, before crouching down to pick the lock of a run-down, rusty door.

Elrond isn't exactly sure he heard it right.

“Did you just say you _trust_ me?”

The door swings open, The Lady stands up. “Apartment B15.” is her reply, and gives Elrond an indecipherable look.

* * *

Thorin stares at his hands and sucks his breath in, lets it stagnate in his chest an instant too long: for a moment he feels like he's flying and drowning all at once, and he hasn't felt this hollow-boned in a century. In a decade, or ever since medication drilled a hole through his thick, thick skull and tried to wire his brain back into something that could keep him alive. Right now the wires are cut and his sister regrets not having forced him to take his pills again every single time she thinks about her sons (Dis doesn't hate Thorin, at least not yet: he hasn't fallen hard enough to make the ground under her feet crumble too.

But he will.

Soon.)

Oakenshield rubs his face and senses Beorn's brown eyes scan the back of his head. The thought that the woman saw his scars ( _all of them_ \- although one is now broken by the marks seared in bone of the delicate jagged rows of the teeth of a snarling white bitch) hits his head and stews there, uncomfortable like everything else right now.

There's the sound of Kili vomiting somewhere in the house, a toilet being flushed, Fili squeezing his eyes shut and not saying anything and just leaning back against the glass door facing Thorin, arms crossed.

They can't say a word about it.

Beorn's watching.

Thorin decides to rub the back of his neck and he's grateful he's wearing a shirt now, but Dwalin still won't talk to him and G's stormed off out of the blue and the Longbeard brothers, despite being his cousins, despite being one of the few if not the only link he has left with his mother's family, are threatening to leave (and Thorin knows they eventually will). There's a difference between a good, secure and guaranteed pay and the risk of finding death at every wrong turn.

There's _always_ a difference.

Stay or go, exist or live, breathe or allow yourself to breathe.

Bilbo knows there's that difference, he saw it in the way his heartbeat clashed with his thoughts, which is why he's standing in that living room right now, smell of wood pungent and strong, cautiously keeping his distance from Laika.

Beorn is feeding a rat perched on her shoulder, a sleek gray and white thing with large black eyes. She coos at it quietly.

“So G told me you're hunting down The Dragon?”

Thorin furrows his brow, Beorn shrugs, “Another name for Smaug.”

MacMathúin chuckles a little when the rat scuttles down along her tattooed arm, tickling her, and onto the the table. Thorin stares at the animal as it cleans its whiskers, intelligent eyes blinking, before answering. The rat stares back.

“Yes.”

He looks up and faces Beorn directly in the eye, but doing so doesn't even remotely make him feel human. He's scared he's stopped feeling like flesh and bone again. Thorin's scared he'll start breathing the world in through glass again.

( _This is not good_.)

( _Nothing is ever good anymore anyway_.)

“Well then you've been looking in all the wrong places. He's been in Swindon for the past month or so. I'm surprised G didn't know.”

Bilbo's jaw drops as Thorin's eyes slip into something that is disbelief and frustration, but his blues translate to rage.

* * *

Kili rests his forehead against the edge of the toilet seat, throat burning.

This is old, this is new, this is him once again wishing he could just _dissociate_ for once instead of always having to find a way.

But he got _scared_ earlier.

He has the right to do this.

Or so he likes to tell himself.

He's young he's foolish he's cocky he's dead, he's _dead_ , he's a tripping walking crawling travesty, betrayer of trusts and breaker of mothers' hearts.

(Sometimes Kili wonders how different it all would have been if his father hadn't died).

The bathroom door opens.

“Fee?” he asks, half hating him, half needing hia older brother, all a pathetic pile on the floor.

“Not. Not _quite_.”

The middle Rison brother tuts and eyes the mess that is Kili and smirks to himself. The kid hears his footsteps and forces his eyes to crack open a little: Nori's crouching in front of him. Rison smiles.

“You don't look too good.”

Kili swallows and smiles back.

“I could. I could feel better.”

Rison clicks his tongue again and tilts his head, letting his haze flicker from Kili's bent legs (black boots, tight black jeans) back up to his sweaty face.

“Didn't mummy warn you that too much alcohol isn't a good idea?”

Nori offers his hand, and Kili takes it.

* * *

Elrond grimaces and glances at a pile of what looks like debris. What he hopes is just debris.

G is currently holding a flashlight between his teeth as he works on picking the lock to apartment B15. Galadriel is watching their back.

The lock clicks, the door opens a crack, Mithrandir pulls his hands back and eyes The Lady, who glances at Peredhel, who kind of just shrugs. The lack of light is making him squint, which is making him hurt. He sighs to himself and The Lady, slowly but surely, gun in hand, creaks the door open. Peredhel offers a hand to G, who gladly accepts it, and helps him stand up. Olórin smiles at him, for a fraction of an instant, before grabbing his gun again and following The Lady into the dusty, dark, tiny apartment. Elrond follows and regrets every step he takes.

The air is thick, the light is virtually non-existant and the apartment itself smells of mold and dead things. It's surprising, and somewhat terrifying, that someone lived there up to what seems to be just a few days earlier. Elrond regrets not having brought hand sanitizer along, as he furrows his brow for the millionth time at the remnants of Chinese takeout abandoned on the coffee table.

“Clear.” Galadriel calls from the kitchen. “ _All clear_.” Elrond replies from the living room.

“Clear.” G says from what used to be the bedroom (there's a ratty old bed, a caved-in chest of drawers, and little else)- and then a fist collides with his jaw. He stumbles back, hits the chest of drawers behind him.

The fist hits again, G knows he's dropped his gun.

“G?” The Lady calls.

He can't answer. Someone's curling their fingers around his neck. Oxygen cut off from the brain, one minute brain cells begin to die but survival is possible, three minutes serious brain damage likely-

Mithrandir grabs the attacker's wrist, throws himself forward.

Ten minutes many brain cells have died, the patient is unlikely to recover.

(You're too old for this shit).

Boom crash and ruin against the opposite wall, tables turned, G snarling and then-

and then the light hits them both (what little light passes through the boarded up windows), and the face G sees is torn into a triumphant, mad snarl. And her right eye is missing.

And no one can deny they look terrifyingly alike- after all, they're twins.

Only that one's supposed to be dead.

“Evening, _brother_.” the other hisses, and G lets go of her because suddenly his brain snaps against his skull and he's a fraction of a moment away from not believing it. But his very real very not dead twin sister shoves him aside (and doesn't kill him).

“Olorin?” Galadriel calls, storming into the room, and then her eyes fall onto the attacker's back and she goes dead-pale.

“Oh God.”

But before she can do anything, she's rushing past her and shoving her against the jamb of the door and G's by her side immediately and Elrond finds himself having to run after her down the dark corridor with his heart beating fast and his brain not fully understanding what's going on- only that he's possibly running after G's evil female twin (he's not entirely sure he's seen it right) and, if this is the case, that his day is _definitely_ taking a turn for the utterly ridiculous. They zoom through the weed-infested garden and then the other takes a sharp, baffling turn to the left, and there's a breach in the fucking fence (and Elrond wonders how or why The Lady didn't notice it earlier) through which the other slithers and out she goes into the street, and Elrond wonders if throwing himself after her is worth the chase.

And then his ankle twists, and he topples to the ground, sunglasses flying, cursing under his breath, trying to scramble for footing (unsuccesfully) and hissing between his teeth. He sees the other's back disappear into the crowd.

Elrond fervently wishes he hadn't gotten out of bed that morning.

* * *

“What exactly do you think you're fucking doing?”

Nori's head snaps up and he narrows his eyes, gentle smile wiped off of his face as quickly as it had blossomed. Dwalin steps into the bathroom. Kili glances up at him.

“I'm _helping_. I know this is utterly surprising to you.”

MacFundin scoffs as Nori pushes himself into a standing position.

“The kid isn't doing exactly okay, MacFundin, is he now?”

Without saying a word, Dwalin grabs Nori by the arm and violently drags him out, glances at Kili who's still a mess on the floor (and the youngest Princesson sibling sees his adoptive uncle's eyes fill to the brim with failure and guilt, _I'm sorry you're doing this to yourself I'm sorry I couldn't protect you_ ) and then tugs Nori down the hallway until they're out of anyone's earhsot.

He then slams him against the wall, hand neatly placing itself around Nori's neck, and Rison splutters as it squeezes and he laughs although it hurts.

“Don't you even _dare_ get close to him. You don't talk to him. You don't _look_ at him.”

“I thought you knew the difference by now, lover.”

The grip around his neck loosens slightly, but not completely.

“You're the only one I'd let fuck me _proper_.”

Dwalin bares his teeth in a furious snarl and slams the back of Nori's head against the wall and both of Rison's hands shoot up to grab his forearms. The noise he makes is wet and jagged and disgusting: a supposed laugh, if his windpipe weren't being crushed.

“You don't _lay a finger_ on my boy.”

“Oh, now. Just _look at you_.”

The manic smirk, the vicious glint, the teasing little smile.

“You're the one who _brought me_ here, you're the one to blame. Did you really think you could control me, Dwalin? You're the one who dragged me into this.”

Dwalin lets go of him and then, before Nori can spat anything else, his fist collides with his stomach. Rison doubles over and hisses, hair falling in front of his face.

“I hope you realize I'll enjoy tearing Thorin apart inch by stupid, _bloody_ inch-”

His teeth reappear in a twisted crooked smile and Dwalin wishes he could kill him right then and there, but there's a rule in Beorn's house- no death, no violence, no killing. No purposefully spilled blood on her perfect wooden floors unless it is to heal.

So he can't kill Nori. He can't gut him right then and there.

“-I hope you realize I'll make sure you have first row tickets.”


	23. vii

London Paddington is a suffocating hustle and bustle made of busy travelers and fretting people, tidal waves of day-to-day chaos. Thorin hides behind his shades and surprises himself wishing G were there- things always seem easier when there's a Secret Service agent watching your back. Still, he coughs and he flinches and for about two seconds the world in front of him is a vivid splash of pain. He doesn't look back at Dwalin although Dwalin sternly looks at him: he knows what look he's being given.

("You're too hurt to go."

"Yeah, but Smaug won't sit around and wait now, will he?"

"Who _cares_ about Smaug at this point! Thorin- _Thorin_!"

"I do. _I do_.")

“Are you all right?”

“I'm fine.”

Fili glances over at Kili (to each his own guardian angel) who's grey-eyed and the kind of pale that also signifies empty and clutching onto his jacket like his entire sanity depends on it. Fili also knows that the comment spewed earlier still hurts, he realizes he's going to snap at his brother about it despite himself and they're going to argue and yell and clench their jaws, because they're both tired and worn down and worried. Because they're both nothing but kids and Thorin was right, they shouldn't have come.

_They shouldn't have come_ , God, they shouldn't have come, poor children, poor flesh, lost boys. But home is nowhere and cut to black, their mother's laughing, their mother's crying, his brother is a shell at the bottom of the ocean locked away in a chest and Fili is sixteen and unable to break the lock, doesn't know how to break the lock, he doesn't know if he wants to, but ever since Becca told him about It Fili lies awake while she breathes next to him, deep in sleep, and he stares at the ceiling and he wishes he could wonder if he'll make his father's same mistakes but every time it's still an icy stab to the gut nearly thirteen years later and it still hurts despite the wounds scarring over, because his father died too early, his father didn't have the _time_ to make mistakes.

(Maybe dying in a car accident where nothing but slippery roads and heavy rain were to blame is his one and only fault).

“Bilbo?”

“Yes?”

Bilbo blinks up from the paper coffee he's been blankly staring at and finds Bofur staring at him. 

“Are you okay? You know... after Azog and all that.”

Baggins smiles at him, absent-mindedly, trapped between the moment Azog snarled at him and he pointed his gun at the man, trapped between the fraction of an instant between seeing Thorin gutted in front of him and feeling Gollum's hands curl around his neck, the moment a gun got pointed to his temple, a USB key of inestimable worth was grabbed and hidden in his pocket. He's scared. He's ready to take the leap, properly- the kind of jump that chokes and thrills you both. The kind of leap Thorin allowed himself only once in his life, the kind of leap Kili never took, the leap Dwalin drank from until he couldn't stand anymore, the leap that guides every single one of Nori's steps. The leap Thranduil wishes he could take, the step he fears more than anything in the world.

Bilbo's rediscovering the thrill of jumping into icy blues, and drinking saltwater makes his head spin with delight. 

But he is nonetheless bloody terrified (heights were never his forte, he prefers to dig and tear through, he finds his way in through other ways and with other means. A burglar of sorts, if this is what you want to call him). So Bilbo just nods at Bofur, because despite it all he _is_ okay. And Bofur nods back, reassured.

Nori, in the meantime, perched on the edge of a bench, casually glances behind his shoulder, clicks his tongue, furrows his brow.

“ _MacFundin_.” he hisses, and Dwalin glares at him. Nori smiles back, wolfish. “C'mere.” 

Dwalin rolls his eyes and Nori chuckles. Their train is in forty minutes. “MacFundin, sweetie pie, c'mere. Trust me, just for this once.”

Dwalin huffs at him and turns around, “What _is it_?” he snarls.

Nori points behind him, playful smile not leaving his face, “We got company.” 

Dwalin quickly glances over his shoulder. His angry expression falls.

“Jesus, that's _Spider_.”

Rison's smirk becomes a full-blown wild grin.

“We're _celebrities_ now, MacFundin. All the big shots want a piece of us.”

Nori's smirking and Dwalin's nervous gaze attract both Bofur and Bilbo, who's trailing behind Broadbeam since he has nothing better to do. 

“What's going on?” Bofur asks, peering behind Rison's shoulder.

“Spider's come to pay us a visit.” Nori replies, sarcastic and manic and savoring the rush that's about to come. He loves the hunt. He loves _to_ hunt, but being hunted is always fun when you can grab your hunter by the neck and snap it in two. Bofur whistles a nervous, tentative whistle and raises his eyebrows.

“Who- who's Spider?” Bilbo asks, eyeing a crowd that looks utterly, utterly harmless.

“She's... killed a few people. Placed a few bombs. Dragged more than one person to hell with her.” Nori answers, keeping his eyes fixed on someone Bilbo can't seem to catch a glimpse of.

“That's her.”

Bofur points at a woman sitting at a bar, jet-black hair leaning towards grey. Nori scoffs at Baggins. 

“She's going to kill us. Every single one of us.”

Bilbo blinks at him. “What's so much worse about her than everyone else we've met?”

“You know fifteen years ago? The whole. Oh, how do they call it. The whole... _Sauron_ mess? The massacres?”

Bilbo nods and swallows dryly.

“She got locked up for it and they _threw away the key_. So _yes_ , Baggins, she _will_ get her claws on us and she _will_ kill us, unless we can outsmart her, which we can't.”

Nori smiles at him and bares his fangs.

“...What are you doing?”

Bilbo's not entirely sure, and as such doesn't reply to Bofur. He just knows he's drawing the gun Broadbeam gave him and he's nervously stepping into the crowd. He's taking the leap.

“Buying us some time. Go warn the others.”

* * *

Tauriel doesn't even bother knocking: she just lets herself in into Thranduil's office and finds him with his forehead resting against his desk.

“I thought Elrond'd given you the week off.”

“I didn't feel like taking the week off.” he mumbles, not pulling himself up to look at her. He's been drinking, and he doesn't even bother hiding the bottle. Tauriel bites her lip.

“Can we talk?”

Thranduil sighs.

“No. We have nothing to talk about.”

“Thranduil. _Please_.”

Greenleaf pulls himself up, then, eyes bloodshot and face sunken and disheveled. “Okay then. _Let's talk_.”

Tauriel has to call upon every single ounce of her will not to scream at him.

The door opens, and a scruffy, nervous looking officer peeks in. He seems on the verge of fretting all over the place.

“Do you have a moment?”

“What's going on, Galion?” Thranduil asks, squinting at him.

“Someone's opened fire over at London Paddington.”

Tauriel shuts her eyes for a second, “ _Shit_. I'm sorry. How many dead?”

“A. A few.”

She sighs and her shoulders slump. “Jesus. What the fuck's been _going on_ these last months?”

(“Smaug's been happening.” Thranduil would love to answer. He keeps quiet).

Galion allows himself a funny little smile, before shaking his head.

"What's so funny?" Thranduil snarls.

"Oh. Nothing. Nothing, really. It's just that- people there are saying that. That Oakenshield's been involved? You know, Thorin Oakenshield. That rich jerk whose house burned down," he shrugs, "some bullshit like that."

" _Oakenshield's still alive_?"

Both Galion and Tauriel's heads snap to turn and stare at Thranduil.

"Is he... not supposed to be?" Galion timidly asks.

Thranduil stares back, "No. No. Everything's fine. It's fine. He's completely supposed to be alive."

He stands up (or better, _wobbles_ : moving around with an arm still wrapped tight against his chest is incredibly uncomfortable) and wrestles himself into his coat. He glances up at Tauriel and Galion, who are still staring at him somewhat suspicious and then blurts out, "All right. Let's go."

* * *

Bilbo skits around a corner and nearly crashes into the opposing wall. He hears fretting footsteps behind him and he quickens his pace until he manages to burst out of an emergency door (the alarm, amongst other things, gets set off) and he stumbles into the sunlight. Baggins stops abruptly before getting run over by a bycicle and flips around to see who's made it out with him.

Fili and Kili are desperately trying to catch their breath. Balin's glancing worriedly behind him and Bombur and Bifur are looking relatively unharmed. Ori and Dori are all right.

Everyone else is missing. 

Bilbo registers this thought a moment too late.

"Oh. Oh, shit. Okay. Hold on. Let's just get out of here."

He blesses backalleys and quickly drags everyone out of harm's way (in this case, the police). They're in the nearest underground station now, looking much more like a group of normal, absolutely normal, utterly normal,  _definitely_ normal people than people who've just narrowly escaped arrest. Except for the fact that Bilbo's cheek is slightly swollen from where one of Spider's men hit him whilst he drove them away from Ori. He sighs. 

"Okay. Okay. Jesus." Bilbo buries his face in a hand, massaging his temples. 

"What do we do now?" Kili bellows over the roar of a passing train. His voice is near-snapping, shaking. 

"They've got my brother!" Bombur exclaims, "they've got  _my brother_."

"And Uncle Thorin. And Dwalin. And-"

"I _know_."

"What are we supposed to do now? What can we possibly do? They've got Rison and Broadbeam and-"

"Just. JUST SHUT UP ALL OF YOU AND LET ME  _THINK_."

Bilbo knows that yelling in a crowded subway station might not be the best thing to do at the moment, but his head hurts and he's too bewildered to care. What can they do? What can they _do_? Thorin's in prison and he doesn't have any idea what to do. He looks to Balin for guidance, but the old man just looks as lost as he is. 

But then Bilbo thinks about the USB key he's been carrying around.

(“We break into things, thanks to this, Precious. We crawl deep deep deep into their system and they can never catch us, because they can't _see us_ , they don't know we're  _there_. It covers our tracks, Precious, it keeps us in the dark and safe and out of harm's way. Their systems can't detect us, if we use this,  _Burglar_.”)

He can break in. He can get them out.

"I know what we're doing."

"And what's that?" Dori asks, sounding as skeptical as Nori.

Bilbo looks at him, and smiles.

"We're going to break into Scotland Yard."


	24. viii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for a graphic attempted murder scene!! 

“You get your fucking rotten _hands_ _off of me_ , you bitch!”

Nori spits at Tauriel. Tauriel freezes for a moment, stares at him, and then continues stripping him of all the knives he's been hiding. For now, she's at fourteen.

She leans close to rip out a balisong from the inside of Nori's coat (it's strapped there, ready for use as a last resort) and she feels him pant into her ear. He's taunting her.

It makes her stomach churn. Thranduil's told her enough about who he is, and what he's done, and the girls he's ruthlessly killed for the pleasure of killing, and the people he's tortured.

She takes his prints and writes down his name, and sends him off to his holding cell.

Thorin's next in line. He's also the last.

She looks at him for a second and then quickly blinks away before they can make eye contact, and neither of them say a word that isn't necessary as she's processing him: name, age, occupation, date of birth, fingerprints. She catalogues what he's got on him (a USB key and a gun and the keys to his house and his wallet, an old two-way plane ticket to Cambodia, an unused train ticket to Swindon) and then she sighs.

It's a funny kind of sigh, a sigh that gets Thorin curious, despite the defeat that's pooling in his stomach where Beorn's sutures are still miraculously intact. It's a sigh he reads as slight pity.

“Can I ask why?” she mumbles as she hands him over to the officer in charge of bringing him to his cell.

Thorin turns to face her. His eyes are both shattered and solid, impenetrable walls.

“Why what?”

“Why you did it? Why you chased after Smaug?”

He scoffs at her. “You wouldn't understand.”

“ _Try me_.” she's about to say, but then realizes it would be stupid. He's a murderer and a man who is hell-bent on tearing the world apart to get what he wants and a person who doesn't care about others. A selfish bastard with eyes that are dull, that are scary, that are staring at Tauriel in such a defeated empty way she almost feels pity.

And then she just sighs to herself and slumps back into her chair, the room empty. Her head hurts. It's an aching kind of feeling.

* * *

“Are you _ready yet_?” Bombur hisses, and Bilbo's head snaps up from the automated, password-protected lock he's staring at. Behind it, there's Scotland Yard's central nervous system.

Including its security terminals.

His eyes narrow at Broadbeam.

“Listen- I'm doing this for _you_. I could just drop everything and fuck off back home, but as a matter of fact, I'm _here_. Breaking the law. For you.”

He sounds angrier than he'd like, but he's at the end of his wits.

Kili gigglesnorts as Bilbo goes back to fiddling with the keyboard. Baggins can feel his pulse quickening- he's done a number of illegal things over the course of the past week or so, but this? This is an entirely different matter. This is in broad daylight. This involves the risk of being caught by a security guard _any moment_. And Bilbo can never stress it enough.

He's not so scared about breaking the law. He just never wants to get _caught_.

Bilbo's phone rings and buzzes against his leg. He ignores it.

He bites his lower lip and tries to think as fast as he can, he's been doing this for more than ten years, oh it can't be _that hard_ , it can't _possibly_ be that hard. Fili's keeping guard at the other end of the corridor, and his head shoots up almost suddenly.

“I hear _footsteps_.” he whispers. His brother glances over at him and then swallows.

Bilbo's phone rings again and he barks, “All right, _all right_!” before flipping it open.

[ message ] : Seems like you're having a bit of a problem there, Mister Baggins.

Bilbo blinks and stares at his phone.

[ message ] : who the fuck is this?

[ message ] : Just call me Esgaroth. For now.

[ message ] : really bloody helpful, thank you. fuck off.

Bilbo is lots of things, but he's definitely not the type of person to trust any random stranger. Especially random strangers who kindly open doors for him, given the latest events.

[ message ] : Oh, come _on_.

The door opens with a click. Bilbo stares at it, then back at his phone.

[ message ] : _did you do that_?

[ message ] : Take an educated guess.

* * *

Thorin stares at the rattling metal table in front of him. He wonders if he could lean his forehead against it and just will the floor to cave in and swallow him.

He hasn't felt this empty in a while.

The door opens and he doesn't bother looking at who's just come in. His handcuffs jingle against the metal of the chair he's been sitting on, he thinks about the uproar his arrest will bring.

He thinks of the laugh Smaug will have.

“Well _look_ who's here.”

The phrase is greeted with the faintest crack of sarcasm and the faintest tiniest speck of relief.

Thranduil takes a few broad steps and sits down across from Thorin. Thorin stares at him, and his jaw clenches. Greenleaf eyes the muscle tensing and his own lips curl into a victorious little smirk.

“How does it feel, Thorin? To have lost?”

He crosses his legs and Thorin's eyes don't leave his face.

The question resonates in the otherwise quiet interrogation room. Thorin doesn't dignify it with an answer. Instead, he hisses:

“You have no right to hold me here. I have a permit for my weapon. What happened at Paddington was self-defense. _People were there_ , ask them.”

“The point is, Thorin, I don't _care_ about London Paddington.”

Thranduil's smile widens, void of any possible joy, as he taps his hand on the papers he's brought in with him.

“You know how old this case file is?”

Thorin's throat goes dry. He swallows and he knows he can't breathe. The pain of Azog's cuts grabs his skin and tears it down, towards the bowels of the earth.

He knows what's in that file. He knows it, and he thought he'd left that in the past, and he'd done it for a reason, and she'd been hurt, and it was raining and he was screaming and Dwalin had to tear him away from the boy and-

“It's... - Thranduil opens it and scans the front page looking for a date - ...it's... twenty-six years old. Assault... and _battery_. Which later became _first degree murder_ when the boy you beat to a pulp with a cricket bat _died_. Because of what you did to him.”

Thorin manages to force himself to swallow and Thranduil blinks at his uneasiness. He leans forward to whisper: “I guess Daddy didn't manage to pay _everyone_ to shut up, did he, you angry little boy?”

“You have no fucking _idea-_ ”

“Of what? Of what happened? I... what? I _wasn't there_? This is _murder_ , Oakenshield. And I might not be able to convict you for all the shit you've pulled off chasing after Smaug, because fuck you and your friends in high places, but your little game of cat and mouse ends _here_. You. Are. Finished.”

Thorin swallows and bares his teeth, “You don't _know_ what Smaug has done to me, you don't fucking-”

“I don't what? Understand? Don't you _dare_ , don't you dare tell me what Smaug is or isn't capable of doing! Don't you _dare_!”

He's shot up, now, nearly losing his balance due to his still-bandaged arm, and he's screaming in Thorin's face, screaming and shaking and their eyes meet, and his face is close to Thorin's and then he hisses, “You know _nothing_ of what that man is capable of. _Nothing_.”

And his voice cracks, and he sits back down, and he stares at Thorin. Oakenshield is quiet and so is Greenleaf, but Thorin has nothing to show, Thranduil has breath drenched in alcohol and his stomach constricting every time the phone rings and a bandaged arm. And an empty house. And an empty soul.

Thranduil gathers his files and rushes out of the room, “Take him to his cell.” he snarls to Galion who's waiting outside and Thorin lets himself be taken away like a docile puppy, eyes burning. He stays quiet when he's put back in his holding cell. He stays quiet and he stares at the wall and for a moment his hands are covered in blood again, he's drenched in rain again, Dwalin's holding him still and their knees are caked with mud and MacFundin's muttering over and over “Let him go let it go let it go, he's dead, it's over. Thorin. It's over.”

Thorin leans his head back, shuts his eyes. He was never a fan of small spaces.

He was never a fan of cells.

* * *

Bilbo furrows his brow and whips out the USB key. His phone's stopped buzzing for the time being, and he mentally makes a note to thank whoever Esgaroth is (seeing as he hasn't tried to kill them. Yet). Bilbo also blesses lunch breaks which, right now, have conveniently allowed the office to be completely empty.

“What's that?” Bombur asks, and Bilbo has to hold back from snapping at him again.

“It's just. It's a _thing_ that'll let me do things much faster.”

He needs to bypass the security systems and open the cells.

Easier said than done. As most of these last few days have been.

( _I'm going to buy us some time_ , and the next thing he knows is he's pinned to a wall and he's about to be choked to death, if it weren't for Thorin rushing in, tearing the man away from him, snapping his arm).

But he's got a little magic trick up his sleeve after all, doesn't he?

Bilbo sits at a computer, takes a deep breath, plugs Ring in and starts typing.

* * *

“Lunch.” Tauriel announces, presenting Thranduil with takeaway vegetarian curry. He smiles at her and she smiles back.

“Tee, you shouldn't have.”

“Nonsense. We all need a little niceness, every now and again.”

She sits down and grabs her own plastic container, chicken tikka masala. Thranduil stares at his food and discovers he is currently unable to eat it. His heart's beating too fast.

He's too empty and relieved at the same time.

It's over.

It's _really, fucking, truly, completely_ over. He can breathe right. He can think right. He's free. It's done.

He's betrayed every single person he loves and failed them all, but he's free. Tauriel eyes him.

“Not... hungry?”

“No. No. I'm fine. I just need to make a phone call. Will you give me a moment?”

She nods, mouth full of chicken, an eyebrow arched, as he walks past his desk, digs for his phone through his pocket and dials Smaug's number.

* * *

“Have you _finished yet_?”

“I'm GETTING THERE!”

Bilbo stares at Bombur who stares back and they both glare. Bombur frowns, Bilbo's jaw spams. He's exasperated.

Baggins sighs to himself, “We need to get a move on.” Fili barks. Balin glances at him and he glances back for reassurance. Dori and Ori are fretting, keeping every door and window in check to avoid anyone coming near.

They've got the “clueless idiot” alibi ready in case it does happen. (Got lost on the way to the loo, and could someone please help them? They're filing a complaint against a noisy neighbor).

Bilbo sees lines and lines of code parading across the screen, and he is invisible, picking through them unseen unheard unnoticed, a God walking amongst them all, he can do anything he want, he can break into anything he needs.

In a world of locked doors, the man with the key is king- but it's a fleeting thought, one he does not let himself think about too much.

(Think of the money. The bank accounts you could get your hands into. And no one could find you. No one could trace you. Dizzy with power and money and greed. Stop! You've found the right bit of code!)

“All right. We got it.”

Lunch breaks and the fact that it's the middle of summer means the offices are lazy, half empty, people's guard is down. It means someone might not notice the cells automatically unlocking. It might just mean that the general security system is bypassed, and the alarm has just set off without anyone noticing it's been bypassed at all.

“Come on!” Bilbo yells, barreling out of the room, the others trailing behind him.

The alarm is a crystal-clear screech in the empty corridors, and Tauriel's head shoots up immediately.

“Let's go!” Bilbo yells as he rushes down a fire escape (they've been seen, Goddammit _they've been seen_ ) and soon enough Thorin joins him. He turns around for a moment and smiles at him, relieved, and nearly falls down the stairs in his distraction. They shove past policemen and people panicking (they're not the only prisoners there, of course. And they might not be the most dangerous) and then they're outside, miraculously, through the backdoor Fili picked the lock of.

Dwalin stops in his tracks, all of a sudden.

“Where's Nori?” he asks.

Everyone stops and his eyes meet Bofur's, who are bright and deep and already know the answer to his question.

“Didn't they take his knives away?”

Dwalin blinks.

“Oh. Oh God _no_.”

* * *

She tastes blood in her mouth. She tastes blood where she's bitten her tongue and the door to Thranduil's office's been locked and she screams, again, to give herself fire, kicks him in the chin with her boot.

Nori's head snaps back and he hisses through the blood, eyes mad.

Tauriel cralws backwards, but Rison grabs her by the ankle and pulls her towards him. She kicks again, her kick falls nowhere but she manages to free her feet, and she's up, standing, but he's slamming himself into her, her back connecting with one of the file cabinets, and it hurts, she'll bruise.

“This'll teach you to take my knives away, you _bitch_.”

But Tauriel has claws and has teeth and she's ready to scratch, she's ready to bite. Sylvan isn't ready to give herself up, not just yet. She buries her hands into Nori's hair and pulls, he yelps in pain but doesn't let go of her arm, pulls her down again, forces her legs open with his knees to get a better grip of her throat. She tries to kick him in the stomach, he shifts his weight and holds her down and starts squeezing and through the air escaping her brain she's screaming, hissing, spitting, her nails dig into his cheek and tear down across his face, until she's opening the skin on his neck, too. Nori screams and pulls back and it gives her enough of the advantage to dash for the door, but he grabs her by the arm again and this rips her shirt open, and she turns.

The door in the meantime has been forced open.

And then someone else is grabbing her, pinning her arms to the side, pulling her up. Tauriel screams, loud, defiant, kicking back and trying to tear herself out of the other's grasp.

She finds herself handcuffed to Thranduil's office chair instead, and her scream dies down.

“WHAT ARE YOU _DOING_?” she yells, her voice ringing with the sense that it's over, she's _done_ she's dead it's _over_ , and she was inches from the door, if only he hadn't grabbed her and chained her and trapped her, if only there weren't two of them, if only-

“Saving your life.” Dwalin answers, and as Nori lurches into a standing position, he grabs a phonebook and slams it into the back of his head.

Nori blinks a few times and collapses. Dwalin hoists him up on his shoulder like you'd do with a sack of dead meat and glances one last time at Tauriel. She stares back at him, and swallows.

“Stay safe.” Dwalin mutters, before letting himself out. In the panicked hustle and bustle, he manages once again to make it outside.

Tauriel stares at the wall in front of her. She cries very quietly, and doesn't know if it's the rage or the fear.

Or both.

* * *

The phone ringing makes him want to vomit.

Elrond whines, loudly, in an empty darkened house and pulls his head up from the drool-stained pillow and clumsily tries to grab his phone.

It vibrates off of his nightstand. Elrond digs for it, finds it lodged in one of his slippers.

“Lin- Lindir?”

“Sir? Is this a bad time sir?”

Lilly hops onto his chest and starts purring loudly. He pets her, the light of the phone hurting every inch of his face.

“It depends. What's all the noise in the background, where are you?”

“There's been a prison break.”

Elrond shoots up and accidentally shoves Lilly off the bed.

“A _what_?”

“A prison break, sir.”

Elrond finds himself scuttling for his pants, socks and shoes, nearly falling as he wrestles his phone between shoulder and ear. He's more or less submerged in pain, but his mind is currently fired at a million times per hour.

“What? What the fuck _happened_?”

“Oakenshield got arrested and things. Things got out of hand.”

“ _Define out of hand_.”

“Tauriel's nearly been murdered.”

Elrond stands in the middle of his semi-dark bedroom with half of his pants on and a completely shocked expression on his face.

“Excuse me?”

“As I said. Things got. They got out of. Out. Out of hand."

He's stammering. Elrond doesn't blame him.

"And sir?”

“What? What is it?”

“I heard Greenleaf on the phone, sir. Well. Overheard.”

“ _And_?”

“You're not going to like it, sir.”

“Just. Just fucking say it.”

“He was on the phone with Smaug, sir.”

Elrond swallows and is fully aware that he's heard what he's heard but he doesn't _want_ to be sure. Because the ceiling is crashing down and the rug's been pulled out from under his feet and not Thranduil, not his _best friend_.

“He was _what_?”

“On the phone with Smaug, sir.”


	25. ix

“Okay. Okay. I know where to go.”

Bilbo nods to himself and to the rest of the company.

“ _Where_?” Thorin asks, nervously glancing behind his shoulder. He's not sure they're being followed but he's nearly hysterical nonetheless.

“My home.”

There's a moment of stunned silence, and then Dwalin scoffs, “They'll find us,  _clear as day_.”

“Nobody knows I broke into their systems. They might've caught a glimpse of me at Paddington but if me and the rest weren't followed when they arrested you... I mean, I doubt they'll come looking for  _me._ I'm a Tesco employee. And it's the safest place to be until we find a way to get to Swindon.”

“Peredhel knows you're with us.”

Bilbo swallows and blinks a few times, lost for words, “Where else could we hide? We're weaponless, or at least half of us are, and we've got no other safe place! I mean, I'm not G and I can't snap my fingers and magically create an escape route, but at least I  _try_!”

He stares sternly at the rest of the men around him and then at Thorin, begging, when he realizes the others won't trust him. Thorin stares back and rubs his face. He thinks.

"All right. Let's do as he says."

Bilbo sighs, relieved.

He'll think about step two once they're actually there, he decides.

* * *

It feels funny, to be able to use the keys to his house. It feels funny and unreal- he wished to come back here so many times and now he's _hiding_ here. He awkwardly smiles at his elderly neighbor who furrows her brow at him as he quickly herds everyone in: in the mean time, his eye catches unopened mail. There's nothing too exceptional, save for a letter that seems to come from a law firm in the United States: for a second he wonders what all the fuss is about. He hardly receives _any_ mail, let alone an international letter.

But it's a problem he'll think about later, and so he sets the post aside.

“We can hide here while we think about what to do, okay?”

Thorin nods at him and Dwalin frowns, sighing and rolling his eyes. He glances towards Nori, who's staring at him with eyes blazing. Dwalin, for a moment, realizes that by robbing the wolf of its prey, he's just condemned himself to death.

He tries to force himself to care. But saving anyone's life is worth it. It's always worth it. He has a lot he has to redeem himself for.

Bilbo opens the door to his kitchen, leading the party through his house.

“I mean, we're- _Who the fuck are you and what the fuck are you doing in my house_?”

Bilbo's staring at a man in his kitchen, who stares back, eyes wide, hair pulled back in a ponytail, sporting a pencil mustache and holding a plate full of noodles that he's just pulled out of the microwave. His mouth is full. He awkwardly swallows the pasta and then mumbles:

“Sorry. I probably should've. Not broken into your house through your bathroom window. But the pasta's good.”

He sounds American.

“Who- _who are you_?”

The man wipes his mouth with his hand and then outstretches it. Bilbo stares at it and then back at him. He doesn't take it.

“Esgaroth, pleased to meet you.”

The man is _definitely_ American.

“Oh my God. So you're- you're the one who. _Oh my fucking God_. But how did you-”

“You said this was _safe_.” Gloin angrily chimes in.

“It is safe, I mean- and Bilbo glances over at Esgaroth, who in the meantime's put his plate down on the table – _is it safe_?”

The American nods and then scrutinizes the crowd assembled, “I've been following you since _Cambodia_ , if I wanted to kill you I would've done so ages ago. And besides, I'm not here to kill you. I'm here to keep an eye on you.”

“ _An eye on us_?” Thorin sounds more than dubious.

“Oh yes. You know, you're not the only ones in the world who want to see Smaug Goldmünze dead.”

His quick bout of sarcasm gets more on one person's nerves.

“So what, you've been _using us_?”

Esgaroth scoffs, “No. I'm just making sure you don't screw everything up.” and then smiles sarcastically. 

“Who _are you_ anyway?”

The American eyes Bilbo, an eyebrow arched, amused little smile never really leaving his lips, “My real name's classified, Baggins. Just know that I'm with the CIA.”

“And why should we believe _that_?”

Esgaroth sighs loudly at Dwalin and then opens his jacket, badge pinned inside of it glittering for a moment in the kitchen's light before he lets go of the lapel. He's not making any effort to mask the frustration. 

“Listen, _you can't_ , _all right_ , not one hundred percent, and I understand that. It's a big bad world out there and everything would've been fine if you hadn't started playing cat and mouse with fucking _Goldm_ _ü_ _nze_ , of all people, but I'm here to help. I helped Baggins break into Scotland Yard and I have no reason to murder you, except for Broadbeam, but that's in the past and we just don't talk about Maine, period. So one way or another I'm going to find Smaug, and I'm going to snipe him-”

“You're a sniper?”

“Yeah, I'm a sniper, so I'm going to get rid of that man, and we can either do this together and save each other loads of bullshit, _or_ we can race each other to whoever gets there first, and I'm gonna get nasty. Now. You need weapons, don't you?”

“How do you-”

Esgaroth rolls his eyes. “Half of you were arrested, _of course you need weapons_.”

“You got any knives?” Nori snaps.

“Do we have any other options?” Thorin snarls. He's not backing down just yet.

“Yes, of course. You step out of here on your own and you'll find Scotland Yard and all of Smaug's friends after you. You'd all be dead in less than a day. But you tell me where Smaug is and agree you won't run off on your own, and you've got yourselves a deal.”

Thorin begrudgingly sighs. He knows they're outnumbered. He knows they're desperate. _He_ 's desperate, he's dragged everyone into this, he's the one who'll have to find a way for them to claw their way out. 

“He's in Swindon.”

Esgaroth nods at him, fingers laced together. He seems to be thinking about something, head cocked to the side for a moment.

“All right then. Follow me.”

And with that he's slipping sunglasses on and picking a rifle case from off the floor, plate of pasta completely disregarded.

* * *

Elrond is sitting at his desk, staring at his hands. 

For the time being, he's concentrating on not letting everything spin out of control completely.

Thranduil didn't take the seat that Peredhel offered him out of habit: he's standing, immobile. As uncomfortable as Elrond, more terrified, much more empty. 

Tauriel is sitting in a corner, wearing an oversized t-shirt courtesy of Lindir who happened to have his yoga gear with him at work. She's been very quiet. Her eyes have been burning very brightly, the same way a forest fire would if it were set ablaze to fester on newborn trees. It's a dangerous kind of glint.

Elrond sighs and the words find it hard to get out. It's not something he minds.

He clenches and unclenches his fists, looks at the bank statement he pulled up moments earlier and hates himself for not having checked before everything snowballed and crashed head-first into his life, wrecking the chairs and the windows and leaving rubble and dust and everyone choking for air. 

“Can I just... can I just know _why_?”

Thranduil doesn't make eye contact. Elrond is grateful for it. 

“He's blackmailing me.”

“ _Blackmailing_? What kind of blackmailer pays you _two thousand pounds a week_?”

“It was to shut me up.”

“To shut you up.”

“It's complicated.”

Thranduil is amazed he manages to talk, when his chest is nothing but a crumbling structure of faulty pillars and rotten bones. His ribcage is falling apart, shaken to shards by the earthquake that's just happened. It's snowing in his throat, and his vocal chords have frozen. He doesn't know what might be able to unthaw them.

If he could, he'd swallow fire.

“How. _How_ is this complicated. Oh God how _dare you_ come here desperately scrambling for excuses for having betrayed your best friends! For betraying me! And Tauriel! Jesus, Greenleaf!”

Elrond promised himself earlier he wouldn't scream. But he's breaking that promise.

On the other hand, Thranduil broke all the others.

“I'm _sorry_!”

“That's not going to be enough.”

He knows it's not enough. Thranduil knows. He _knows_ , he knows it because he doesn't know what to do, he knows it because suddenly, crystal clear, he is aware of the fact that he is going to walk straight into traffic once this conversation is over, he realizes he is so disconnected nothing matters, nothing matters, nothing matters.

 _Everything_ matters.

“Just believe me. Elrond. Please. He was blackmailing me. Please.”

“How! _How was he blackmailing you_?”

Thranduil stares at his feet and there's the part of his brain that's still alive begging him to say it. To just spit it out. To let his words crash into Elrond's exasperated, terrified wailing at him. 

“I want you to resign.”

“No.” The panic sears his throat like bile would. “No. Elrond. Please. It's my only guarantee. Being a police officer is my only guarantee. _Please don't do this to me_.” 

He doesn't hear his voice cracking with panicked tears but the other two do.

“Then tell me how he's blackmailing you.”

“I can't. It'd make it all worse _I can't_.”

“Okay. I want a resignation letter on my desk by tomorrow morning.”

Thranduil buries his face in his hand for a moment. “ _Please_.”

“Please don't make this any more difficult than it already is, Thranduil! Do you even realize _the scope_ of what you've done?”

“Do you think I _don't_?”

Elrond stops to stare at him for a second, taken slightly aback. He lets out a rattling breath and glances over at Tauriel, who's staring at the two looking drained and empty and sad.

“I can't help you if I don't know what's going on.”

“He'll kill him if I tell you.”

“Kill _who_?”

“Oh God.”

It's Tauriel. 

She's stood up, taken a few steps forward, and she's staring at Thranduil with eyes full of fire (cold fire, ice-fire) and she. She lets out a small sigh. An “I _knew it_ ” sigh. Thranduil looks her in the eyes and suddenly is aware of the tears that have been streaming down his cheeks. 

“He has Legolas, doesn't he?”

Thranduil lets out a shaky, unstable breath and nods, the band around his throat constricting and falling apart all at the same time. He nods, barely noticeable, and breathes like a man who's already dead.

Elrond gapes at Greenleaf.

“He _what_?”

“He has Legolas.”

Thranduil says it as if he's just condemned someone to certain death.

“Jesus.”

Peredhel slumps back in his chair and his expression betrays utter loss, “So he's not at Jenny's?”

“I haven't properly talked to her in... in _five_ _years_ why on Earth would I leave Legolas with her if I were having a breakdown? I'd leave him with Tauriel. Or with you.”

He's talking very quietly. He's talking very slowly, as if he's just been defeated, stripped of everything, as if he's emptied himself of all internal organs and is staring at the contents of his body on the floor in front of him.

“Why didn't you _tell me_?”

“Because he would've. Oh Christ, he's going to kill him if anyone else knows. And the price for Legs is Thorin's head and. And.”

He shuts his eyes and doesn't bother to force himself to swallow. He turns back towards Elrond.

“ _Please_ let me go after Oakenshield. Please.”

( _The dogs are getting hungry_ ).

Elrond doesn't know what to do. His head is burning a hole through his skull, his flesh feels like it's being set on fire, and he's staring at his best friend who's just told him his kid's been kidnapped by one of the most dangerous men alive and he _doesn't know what to do_.

“Do you think he'll- oh God, do you think he'll ever let Legolas go once he has Oakenshield?”

He blurts it out without thinking. Tauriel glares at him. Thranduil whines, very, very small. Very, very lost.

“No. But Oakenshield'll lead me to Smaug.”

He wants to get his kid back.

He's going to get his kid back. He's torn the world apart just to get where he is, at this point he doesn't care if he does it for a little longer. He doesn't care if he crashes and falls, Icarus and Daedalus switched- the father flying too close to the sun, the child calling him back.

One of them lives, at the end of the story. And it isn't Icarus.

His wings are already burning.

Elrond wishes he could erase all that's gone wrong with a snap of his fingers. But he can't, and now Thranduil's begging him to let him go and hunt down both Oakenshield and Smaug, to get his kid back, to barrel through the world and burn it to the ground, if he has to. If that'll mean getting his boy.

“I don't know what to do.”

“Let him go.”

Tauriel says this and it feels heavy even after its weight has been taken off her tongue. Thranduil glances over at her. Elrond stares at them both. He swallows dryly.

“Okay.” 

And with that Thranduil manages to blurt out a “Thank you.” before rushing out of the door.

He hears footsteps right behind him.

“You're not coming along.”

“Bull. Fucking. _Shit_.”

He presses the elevator button and Tauriel stops next to him, staring intently.

“It's too dangerous.”

“What? Like _nearly getting gutted_?”

It stings (he feels guilty, she knows it, this doesn't lessen her rage nor does her rage lessen her love) and he accurately avoids turning to look at her as the doors open with a ding and he steps in. Sylvan obviously follows.

“I'm coming with you.”

“Tauriel-”

“I'm doing this for _Legolas_. Besides, you can't even fucking drive, your arm's fucked up.”

He glances over at her, “I don't want you to get hurt. I mean _more hurt_ than you already are.”

“It's _too late_. Now, let's try and fix what we can.”

 _If we can_.

* * *

“All right, so we got rifles, guns, _knives_ – Esgaroth glances over at Nori – ...pretty much _anything_ you need.”

He rubs his hands together. The basement they're in is a semi-lit, weapons-filled hole hiding under a completely respectable-looking frozen fish store, where Esgaroth works as part of his cover. The store is called Laketown and was built there after a shopping centre, called Dale, was knocked down to make way for a few Goldmünze buildings.

Nori grabs a throwing knife and weighs it. “Balanced or unbalanced?” he asks.

“Balanced,” Esgaroth replies, handing Gloin a crate of ammo to inspect. Rison eyes the knife, smirks and then flips around, throwing it. It whizzes through the air and lands disturbingly close to Dwalin's face. 

“ _Oops_.”

MacFundin looks at him blankly and doesn't even bother pulling the knife out of the wall. He lets Nori come and get it, and moves out of his way. He feels Rison's eyes on the back of his head as he moves on to check out another gun Balin is handing him.

He knows Nori's just waiting for the right moment to strike.

“All right, we all set?” Esgaroth asks as he finishes loading up his rifle.

Bilbo nods at him, “I think so- yeah.” and glances behind him, more precisely at Thorin, who, albeit still not trusting Esgaroth completely, glances back and nods too. 

“Great!” Esgaroth chirps, hauling his rifle over his shoulder.

“Now let's go catch a criminal.” 

# End of PART TWO


	26. part three

## III.
    
    
    The only difference between a suicide and a martyrdom really is the amount of press coverage.

Chuck Palahniuk,  **Survivor**


	27. i

He wakes up with his mouth full of the colors you see when you're vomiting into a bucket filled with your own shit, and he wonders if his hands show the stains of the shame that he's just swallowed.

The train's just pulled into Swindon station, and Thorin muses for a second about how Hell must smell like.

He thinks he knows.

* * *

“Okay, just a thing. This is enemy territory. Smaug owns, controls and pretty much knows about everything and everyone here. It's just that the general populace isn't very... _aware of that_. A rich jerk lives here, sure, and the Goldmünze Enterprises headquarters are here, sure, but nobody's linked Smaug to Goldmünze. Mainly because nobody really knows Smaug exists. He's... classified information.”

Esgaroth takes a puff of his cigarette and Kili notices he talks with his hands a lot, the cigarette stays clenched between his teeth most of the time. And his sunglasses seem bolted to his face.

“So he probably knows we're already here. Now, the question is- will he let us get close to his house, or will he kill us all first?”

“How do you know where he lives?”

“D'you know Bryanna MacMathúin, Oakenshield?”

“I know a Beorn MacMathúin. More or less.”

“They're the same person, she just hates the name Bryanna. Anyway, I've been working in tandem with her, who's been working in tandem with G, who's been working without any of his superiors knowing we're doing this, since he technically got pulled back from the mission of tracking down Smaug some odd six months ago,” Esgaroth accompanies the latest phrase with a somewhat bitter smile, “so we have pretty solid knowledge of where the bastard lives. Keep moving, don't stop while you listen to me. _Movimiento es vida_. If you stop he's more likely to spot us.”

Thorin finds his use of Spanish vaguely irritating. There's lots of things about the American he doesn't like and can't pinpoint why, and he's pretty sure the feeling is widespread amongst the rest of the company. The only ones who seem to somewhat like him are Bilbo and Kili.

“All right. So. Smaug's mansion is an odd fifteen minutes out into the countryside. It's impossible to break into it, as far as I know. _Unless_ you have some inside information.”

Thorin lights himself the first cigarette of the day, and something tells him it won't be the last.

He sees inside himself every time he closes his eyes (the malfunctioning reeking clockwork made of flesh laid bare for the crows of his guilt to feast on), he _needs_ something to ground his trembling hands. Smoke bloating his lungs is the best thing he can think of that doesn't involve dissolving like bones in the desert.

He stares at Esgaroth and chases the monotone monochrome litany of deathwishes out of his head, his synapses barking them up a tree. Oakenshield arches an eyebrow.

“And do we have _inside information_?”

Esgaroth frowns at Thorin.

“We wouldn't be here if I didn't.”

* * *

The car is, of course, dead quiet.

Thranduil's head is pressed against the glass and Tauriel is tapping on the steering wheel and trying not to let the traffic jam they're stuck in get on her nerves too much.

Greenleaf takes a quick sip from his flask, grimaces and glances over at Sylvan. The choreography is familiar, and ugly. He's fidgeting, nervous, uncannily and unfortunately reminding her of a junkie needing a fix so bad their innards are no longer burning, they've become piles of ash that have solidified the heart into rock with every scared breath.

She opens her mouth to speak.

“No.”

Thranduil stares at her and she stares back, startled by both the roughness and the terror in his voice. She blinks as the column of cars starts moving: her need to talk is momentarily droned out by the car's motor roaring back into life. Greenleaf leans back against the carseat and breathes hard through his nose, he tries to shut his eyes and hopes that it'll stop his head from spinning.

Of course, it doesn't.

“I don't want to talk about it.”

“But we have to.”

“I don't want to.”

“You're acting like a _child_.” she snarls, momentarily squeezing her eyes shut in exasperation and what she hopes, hopes _hopes_ isn't despair.

“I said I don't want to tal-”

“BUT WE _HAVE TO_!” She's raised her voice, “ _What is there to talk about, Tauriel_?” and so has he, after a moment to let Sylvan's scream ring out of his ears. But she doesn't want to argue. She's too tired to argue. He's too empty to argue.

She swallows.

“You have to let it out.”

He scoffs and knows some part of him should try to steady his voice down, “I'm not... _God_. Here you are playing doctor again. I'm not a... I'm not a kid at a crime scene you need to talk down from having a _panic attack_ , Tauriel, Jesus bloody Chri-”

“But if you don't let it out it'll! It'll! It'll _gnaw at you_!”

“There's nothing. _Nothing_ I have to or can add. Everything you heard in Elrond's office is everything there... there _is_ , really. That's it. That's all.”

“Thranduil-”

“No. No. No. _Stop talking_. Please. Stop _talking_.”

The last word gets lost in the cracks of a badly shattering voice, his head still ringing with his own strangled scream. She lets out a shaky breath when he steadies his shaking hands with another sip of alcohol. He knows she's sighed, he's heard it, he doesn't care, he tries not to care.

He wishes he were dead.

Tauriel stares at the road ahead of her and clenches her jaw. She hopes the tears will stay put and not break free through her eyes. It's always messy, when they go racing down someone's face.

“It's the next exit.”

“I know.”

She doesn't look at him as she replies, but Thranduil hears the cracks in her voice that point inward, towards Tauriel's core. He's broken her heart. He's broken everyone who matters' hearts.

* * *

“All right. We split.”

“ _What_?”

Esgaroth can't avoid his mouth hanging open. He whips his sunglasses off and gapes at Oakenshield. They've stopped for a moment, per Gloin's insistence, in a small park to catch their breath.

“Are you _insane_?”

Thorin smirks at him. “If we break up there'll be less of a risk of being spotted.”

The agent laughs, completely dumbfounded, clearly uncomfortable. “If we break up, I won't be able to help you if you need it.”

“We can fend for ourselves, _thank you_.” Dwalin interjects. Esgaroth glares at him. Bilbo stares at all three.

“Okay you don't like me, I get it. I never asked you to like me, all I need is for you to trust me enough so that we get out of this alive. I told you, if we want we can race each other like two year olds, and it won't be pretty. For any of us. Smaug is smart, and our advantage is in the numbers.”

“Or if we _split up_ , there's a meager chance that at least some of us wi-”

“HOLY _SHIT_!” Esgaroth yells and interrupts Thorin, shoving the person closest to him (it's Bilbo, who uncomfortably finds his back connecting with dew-soaked grass and a panting American on top of him) to the ground, just in time to avoid a whizzing bullet. No, not a whizzing bullet- a _hurricane_ of bullets.

Shooters. Again.

Shooters. Like every other day.

Smaug's stopped being subtle. Smaug is acting very much like someone who is desperate but doesn't want to show it. Smaug is hell-bent on destroying them.

Smaug might very well get what he wants.

Esgaroth rolls to the side, off of Bilbo, and he's back on his feet, rifle armed and ready to use. He blesses the existence of bulletproof vests and then turns back towards Thorin ( _how the fuck has that man not been hit yet_?, his brain asks, but it's not the time to dwell on such things) and yells:

“SPLIT UP. _NOW_!”

Thorin quickly nods at him and yells at Bilbo, “Baggins! With me!” and Bilbo is more than happy to follow.

* * *

“What the-”

Thranduil blinks a few times, still groggy, as they turn a corner and are met by a panicking crowd steadily running opposite the direction they're going towards.

“...What the fuck's going on?”

“There's shooters,” Tauriel answers and before Thranduil can do anything, she's pulling her gun out, badge clearly in view. Thranduil stares at the gun and then back up at Tauriel. She doesn't look back at him.

“ _Tauriel_?”

“There's shooters out there, Thranduil. I'm not going to sit around and wait for a bullet to hit someone. If you want, come along.”

And with that she's parked on the curb (illegally), quickly shuffled out of the car, “Or just wait in here.” and slammed the door in Thranduil's face. It stings his pride (what little pride there's left) and he sits there for a few seconds, biting his lower lip.

“Oh, _fuck this_.” he snarls, and he's out, rushing after Tauriel.

* * *

Bilbo's throat hurts, and so do his lungs: every intake of breath feels like nails pressed into his alveoli, small cuts blossoming into his flesh and bleeding. He doesn't know how much longer he'll be able to run.

Thorin's in front of him, and Bilbo can hear quick footsteps behind him: he hasn't dared to look back and see who it is. He just wants to get to an end of this: shot in the head or managing to escape doesn't matter.

Thorin stops abruptly, and it's a miracle Bilbo doesn't crash into him. He stumbles forward, though, and nearly lands face-first against the wall that's stopped their escape.

“Oh no.” Baggins breathes and glances up at Thorin, who seems to be frantically searching for an alternative. There are none. They're sandwiched between a garage door and the back of a building.

In that precise moment, Bilbo feels a gun press against the nape of his neck.

“Don't move. Hands up.”

It's a voice Thorin knows very well. Bilbo freezes and pulls up his shaking hands abruptly. He takes a few steps back, following the feeling of metal against his neck.

“You move, Oakenshield, and I shoot him.”

“ _Greenleaf_.”

“You move, and I _fucking_ shoot him.”

Thranduil's eyes meet Thorin's and he smirks at him, hysterical. “I'm not letting you go again.”

He is a mask of pure panic and pain. Thorin's never seen him like this- not even when he lost it at the Yard. This is a whole new level of desperate. The problem is, Oakenshield doesn't know just how much.

Thorin swallows.

“Put the gun down, Greenleaf.”

“You put yours down first. _Come on_.”

“ _Thorin_.”

Bilbo sounds terrified, and he's not very sure where that last squeak came from. Thorin glances quickly at him and then back at the DI. He crouches down and slides the gun across the pavement.

“Good boy.” Thranduil hisses.

And then three things happen, all in rapid succession.

One: Thranduil shoves Bilbo aside, who nearly hits the brick wall next to him, and points the gun at Thorin, ready to fire.

Two: a knee connects with the small of Greenleaf's back and a fist connects with his shoulderblade, he lets go of the gun with a scream, lurching forward.

Three: Thorin pounces, slams Thranduil against a wall, and starts pounding his face with vicious, perfectly-placed fists.

Bilbo stares at the two, blinking away the dizziness and so does Dwalin, Thorin's ever present shadow. Thorin slams Thranduil's head against the concrete. Once, twice.

" _How about this_ , eh, you bastard?" Oakenshield hisses, and Thranduil's hand that isn't still trapped in a sling shoots up and tries to shield his face. "Please." he begs, to no avail.

" _Please._ He has my son. Please."

" _Liar_."

"Thorin." Dwalin barks, but Oakenshield's slipped into his own kind of deaf frenzy, the type that sits between his tendons and his muscles and makes him want to tear the world apart with his teeth. The type of bloodthirst that made him pick a cricket bat up, so many years ago. Right now, he is positively _wrecking_  Thranduil's face.

"THORIN."

"Thranduil?" Tauriel asks, turning the same corner he saw him disappear behind. Her eyes widen and she throws herself forward, " _THRANDUIL_!" but Dwalin grabs her before she lands in Thorin's clutches, red waves escaping her ponytail and falling in front of her face. She hisses something that sounds like a "No!" but stops struggling a few seconds after.

"Thorin." Dwalin repeats. Bilbo's in the meantime hauled himself to a standing position and wondering why MacFundin doesn't just tear Thorin off of Thranduil, whom has become nothing but a bleeding, sobbing mess on the pavement.

"Hehaslegolashehaslegolaspleasebelievemehehasmyboypleaseplease _please_ -"

"Oh you pathetic little-"

"ENOUGH."

Dwalin's rorared it, loud, and he's grabbed Thorin off of Thranduil and shoved him to the side. Thorin snarls and blinks back the rage and stills his hands. And then it looks like he's  _tripping_ \- Bilbo sees his eyes trip on themselves, or whatever is inside his eyes, and a violent tremor seems to cross his entire body, a tremor that ends in his fingertips. Thranduil's breathing is heavy and sounds plain wrong. Too wrong to be coming from a person who's alive.

"He has Legolas. He has my son."

Thorin stares at him and then swallows.

"He's lying."

"He's telling the truth." Tauriel answers, head high, eyes blazing. She's not even close to Thorin's height but for some reason she's intimidating just the same. Dwalin thinks of Rebecca. Thorin stares at her as Bilbo helps Thranduil stand. Greenleaf flinches, his breathing erratic, and Sylvan glances over at him. Her worry bleeds clear through her slightly parted lips. "He's telling the truth." she continues. "I  _swear_."

Thorin looks everything but convinced. He picks up his gun, and for a moment Bilbo fears for the worst. But then he puts it away again, and hands Thranduil his.

"I don't trust you. But I believe you."

(He knows both Dwalin and Bilbo do- and what just happened was a ghost, something black, a shadow stuck to his physical form, black film polluting his skin. He doesn't want to acknowledge it. He doesn't want it to overpower him, and so he won't kill them, because he is _civil_ , because he is  _human_ , he is  _in control_ , and Afghanistan did not take that away from him.

 _His father did not take that away from him_ ).

Tauriel lets out a shaky gasp and swallows. 

* * *

They follow the directions Esgaroth texts Bilbo until they reach an old playground in a seemingly deserted area, on the outskirts of town. It's getting dark. Thorin is happy to see Fili and Kili are okay. Everyone else seems to be, too. Balin looks a little weary. Nori seems so wound up Dwalin wouldn't be surprised he took a pit-stop to self-medicate for a moment. He's beyond jittery. 

Neither Thorin nor Dwalin mention Oakenshield's behavior in the alley to each other. They know they don't have to (it also scares them both).

"Aaand  _who's this_?" the CIA agent asks, tilting his head at Sylvan and Greenleaf, and his still bleeding nose. When he sees Thranduil, however, his expression changes.

"Holy shit. Never thought I'd see  _you_ again."

" _Esgaroth_." Thranduil mumbles through a loose front tooth as he tries to muster a grin. He looks a mess, now that Tauriel can get a proper look at him in the bluish post lights that have just switched on- the sun's finally set. She wonders if he thinks he deserved such a beating: he does think so. It would sadden her to know.

"Detective Constable Tauriel Sylvan." Tauriel says, extending a hand, "Do you know each other?"

Bard nods, "In a way."

Thranduil clears his throat and nudges towards Dwalin, Bofur and Nori, "We worked together on The Golden Trio case, some. _Shit._ Fifteen years ago."

The American clicks his tongue and deems it rude to ask what happened to Thranduil's face. "Did Peredhel send you?"

"More... or less." 

Esgaroth types away at his phone and then smiles for a fraction of an instant. "Is everything all right?" Bilbo asks.

"Oh yeah, I just got a text from our inside agent, that's all. Everything's going according to plan."

(If you don't count nearly getting murdered in the middle of Swindon).

Esgaroth smirks at Bilbo. Thorin glares at Esgaroth and then snarls, “You've had a mole in there for _how long_?”

“Eight months.”

“And Smaug's never noticed? Not once?”

“Miss Thrush is very good at her job.”

“..Miss _Thrush_?”

“She works with Roac DuCarc, who's in charge of making sure she doesn't get killed. And who... should've met us five minutes ago.”

Esgaroth checks his watch and then furrows his brow. 

"Her name's  _Thrush_?" Nori says, sounding almost ( _almost_ ) amused. "She sounds like she's out of some fucking Roal Dahl book."

(His voice is raspy and it slithers into Tauriel's brain and down through her nose, past her throat, into her stomach. Emptiness. Something inside of her gets set loose. Something very akin to Thranduil's type of panic: but he's already breaking and one out of two is enough, so she takes it and stowes it away despite the diseased flakes it spreads around, and she queits it down, and hope it'll leave. She, of all people, should know it won't).

"Hey. No insulting my colleague like that."

It isn't Esgaroth who's just spoken: the voice comes from somewhere behind the group, and belongs to someone slightly younger but still American (Southern, to be precise). The person in question is a thin, lanky thing with a head of jet-black hair and a cardigan that looks thirty years too old. Xe smiles at the crowd assembled and cracks xyr knuckles, before outstretching a hand at Thorin, who gingerly takes it after having stared at it for a moment.

"Roac, pleased to meet you."

"So you're the one who's gonna get us into Smaug's home?" Gloin Longbeard asks. Him and his brother are still here, and some fickle part of Thorin's is somewhat grateful of it. Roac does a comical little bow and pushes xyr thick-rimmed glasses up xyr nose.

"Indeed I am, sir." 


	28. ii

Roac furrows xyr brow as xe snatches something out of the printer the minute it comes out, shuffling awkwardly between the table and Thorin and Bilbo. Esgaroth's perched on a stool in front of a few bleeping monitors, Dwalin's standing at arm's length. Fili and Kili are sitting on the floor (it makes them look like children, Bilbo notes, and it unnerves him), the rest are all awkwardly crammed in what serves both as DuCarc's living quarters and Operation Gold Digger's central intelligence operating base: an unsuspecting caravan in an even more unsuspecting abandoned car lot.

Which is now filled with people clumsily finding one way or another to fit inside.

DuCarc nibbles on xyr lower lip and spreads out what xe's just printed onto the table in front of him, roughly shoving an old mug of coffee out of the way. It's a map: more precisely, it's a map of the Goldmünze buildings. Thorin stares at it intently, then looks up at Roac. DuCarc points at a circle xe's just traced around a door on the back of the building.

“Alice'll meet us here.”

“She's _inside_ the building?” Gloin Longbeard asks, somewhat skeptically.

“She's Smaug's secretary,” Esgaroth snaps back, “and if you're still alive, it's all thanks to her.”

Nori scoffs at this. Tauriel feels her hands itch with the sudden need to hurt him ( _you're better than that, you're better than that, you're better than that_ ) but she swallows it down. _God, I arrest scum like you for a living_.

Thranduil eyes her from over the ice pack he's currently pressing against his cheek, but neither speak a word. Talking will come, of course. They both need it, they both know this, and neither will start.

Such is the nature of things- but in time all demons will find you and they will come to tear you apart.

They always do, they always do. Just give them time. Just give them breath.

“No matter who or what happened, there was always an escape route, wasn't there?”

Thorin swallows and stares at the CIA agent, who stares back, unblinking- he thinks about Elrond (was it _all_ Elrond's?) men sniping the assassins in Cambodia, he thinks about G appearing last minute with Gwaihir as backup, G popping up at the Tunnels Hotel, G or someone else always being there. Always someone helping.

Almost as if someone _knew_ what Smaug had in mind. Someone like a secretary, perhaps. A particularly quiet, reserved, maybe not too bright secretary. The thrush perched on a branch, hopping down to the forest floor to pick up what was left behind by bigger birds, what seeds, what little plants.

Thorin pulls back from the map and arches an eyebrow. He glances from Roac to Esgaroth and then back, and then asks, flat-out, “Why didn't you kill him, then? If... _Miss Thrush_ is in so deep and so well informed? Weren't we supposed to- to _break into his house_?”

“Oh, _please._ You don't think we've _tried_?” Esgaroth asks back. There is a thick, thick layer of sarcasm stapled to his voice. “You don't think we fucking _tried_? He's impossible to kill and his house is _impossible_ to break into, and Alice's position can only be jeopardized up to a certain point.”

“Then what's your plan?”

“We break in, wreck the place, all hell breaks loose, me and Baggins get our hands on A.R.K.E.N.S.T.O.N.E., we get out of there and Operation Gold Digger finally comes to its long-awaited end, with Smaug hopefully dead.”

“ _Definitely_ dead.” Esgaroth corrects DuCarc. The tech whiz sighs.

Thorin blinks a few times.

“That's... _it_?”

“Yeah.” Esgaroth shows his palms to Thorin in a scornful, sarcastic, exasperated gesture.

 _Whatcha gonna do about it, chump_?

Oakenshield looks from the bespectacled person to the mustached man and then back, then at Dwalin, at Bilbo, back at Esgaroth.

“You're _CIA_ and this is what you come up with? Backdoors and... and and _bombs_ and setting fire to things and _chaos_?”

“Listen, it's the best we can do.”

“ _This_ is the best you can do?”

“All right, you know what? The truth is we've got no time left because you've _fucked it all up, Oakenshield_!”

Roac bites xyr pinkie nail and eyes Esgaroth, fidgeting. But Esgaroth is relentless and his jaw is clenched. “You can say _that_ again,” Thranduil mutters under his breath. Sylvan hears him and glares over. He glares back, not entirely unkindly.

“You ran off and did your thing and now it's up to _us_ four jerks to pick up the pieces, and we're trying to do what we can without having half the world fucking burn down! So either you play by our rules or you're _out there_ , and you're on your own. All of you. FOR _GOOD_.”

Oakenshield clenches his jaw and doesn't stop staring at Esgaroth, who's screaming outburst's just crawled back into him as quickly as it had appeared. Esgaroth sits back down and Thorin takes a step back despite himself, glances at Dwalin for security he doesn't even know he needs. Dwalin looks away as he blinks. Unnoticed unseen, _don't do this to me_ MacFundin thinks, because he thought he'd healed.

DuCarc clears xyr throat.

“As I was saying, Alice'll meet us here. The plan was for me and Bilbo... can I call you Bilbo? Yes? No? Okay. Uh. _Mister Baggins_ to break into the building with Alice's help. Me and Esgaroth were thinking that... the... _The Golden Trio_ -

(And that's a name neither Bofur nor Nori nor Dwalin have heard in _years_ , and it makes them smirk)

-could be our security backup. You know. Break a few necks, clear the road for us. Possibly not... skin anyone.”

Dwalin nods at xem.

“Sounds fair.”

“And besides, if worse comes to worst Esgaroth'll be there ready to snipe anyone who gets in your way.”

“What do we do? The rest of us?” Tauriel asks.

“We can't be too many in there, the more there are the more'll get killed,” Roac pushes xyr glasses up the bridge of xyr nose. “So you just keep the perimeter in check, make sure no one except us gets out. Or in.”

Xe swallows, somewhat uneasily.

Thorin seems deep in thought, absent-mindedly squeezing one bent knuckle between his teeth.

“On one condition.”

Roac tries not to sigh too loud.

“Which one?”

“I go in there with you and Baggins.”

DuCarc glances at Esgaroth, alarmed. Esgaroth seems to think for a few seconds. It is a _terrible_ idea. A horrible one. A stupid, stupid, stupid idea. Oakenshield is crazy. Esgaroth can't make such a rash decision.

“Okay. _Deal_.”

* * *

“Keep _quiet_ , for Chrissake.”

Esgaroth glares at the sixteen people behind him (although only a few are really making any noise) and then back at DuCarc, who's anxiously tapping xyr foot and glancing from time to time at xyr wristwatch. Thranduil and Tauriel close the line of incredibly anxious people, and they're the ones making the absolute least of a fuss (if you don't count Bilbo, of course).

Thranduil's face is becoming a solid throb, a block of pain he keeps trying to blink to the back of his head. Tauriel, on the other hand, feels disturbingly like she is fractured glass ready to be broken into shards, infuriated, and buried into Nori's testicles.

Being weak means being fragile, and she cannot be fragile because damsels in distress never get anything done, damsels in distress are torn apart by wolves. She was weak and she nearly got hurt, and it's funny that she does not think these things of the rape and abuse victims she talks to every day ( _where did daddy touch you how old was your attacker could you see his face_ ) but _she is different_.

She _has to be different_. She cannot allow herself the luxury of being a scared princess. She cannot be weak, she is fighting the wolves and she _has to_ win.

( _But you can let yourself cry_ ), a part of her tells her. She kicks it out of her ears: crying is weakness.

( _It's not_ ).

I have to be strong ( _not always_ ). He needs me. They need me. ( _They can save themselves, my child. Heal yourself_ ).

Not now.

She's hastily taped her loose parts together with old yellowing sellotape Tauriel doesn't know how long will hold, but she hopes it's until this nightmare is over.

Thranduil spits and it's red with the blood from his bitten tongue. She stares at it, stares back ahead, stares as far from herself as possible. The door they're waiting in front of opens and everyone reaches for their weapons in the darkness, ready to shoot.

“It's just me.”

A girl with an incredible mass of wavy brown hair is standing in the doorway, wearing what looks like varying shades of brown, beige and orange.

“Alice,” Esgaroth greets her with a small nod. The air is strangely brisk and tense tonight, but Bilbo figures it's because they're all on the edge of their seat. Thrush smiles at him, “We all ready?”

Esgaroth tugs at his rifle strap, “We're ready.”

None of them knows what they're throwing themselves into.

She nods, not hiding her slight nervousness, and then steps aside to let Bilbo and Roac by.

Fili and Kili immediately trail after Thorin. He turns around and plants an arm across the doorway, inches from Fili's chest.

“Out of the question.”

“Don't be absurd, I promised my mother I'd look after you.”

Out. Of. The question.”

Esgaroth hisses through his teeth, “ _We don't have all night_.” but neither Thorin, nor Fili, nor Kili even do as much as acknowledge him. Thorin gives his two nephews a long, hard, stern gaze. Fili swallows, Kili's about to hiss venom at his uncle, Balin suddenly clasps both the kids' shoulders.

“It's all right, lads. He'll be all right.”

Kili shrugs his godfather's hand off his shoulder and Fili swallows cautiously, taking a step back. It's true, he's too tired to do this: to argue, to fight, to have to pry Kili and Thorin apart. He'll just let him go.

After all, Dwalin's got his back (like always).

Alice smiles at them, completely joyless and immensly sarcastic, and then glances over at Esgaroth.

“All set?” she asks him. He's quickly clambering up the wall with what looks like a grappling hook. Esgaroth winks at Alice, who just rolls her eyes.

“All set, sweetheart.”

Bilbo wonders how the fuck they haven't been spotted yet, as Alice slams the door behind herself, him, Roac and Thorin. And, of course, The Golden Trio. The hallway is pitch-black, save for a few depressing sizzling neon lights that make everyone look dead.

“So,” Thrush starts, matter-of-factly, loading her gun, “Smaug's office is at the top floor, maximum security, surrounded by guards. the usual mess. Without mentioning the man's... you know. _In there_ , right now.”

Bilbo gapes at her.

“He's _what_?”

“He's in there. We were thinking of. You know. Sinking the ship with the captain inside it.”

She smiles at Baggins who doesn't seem at all less nervous. Some terrible part of him thinks that a woman as fearless as Alice Thrush could quite possibly also be a little bit out of her mind.

“Come on,” Thorin snaps, and he can feel his heartbeat rapidly increasing. This is it, this is done, it's over, _it's over_. This is the last move.

The chess pieces close in around the king and his throat tightens around the air he breathes, hands shaking ever so slightly (reality becoming thinner and thinner, but he won't _think_ _about that_ right now) with anticipation, he glances at Bilbo and he glances at Dwalin and then Alice Thrush stops in front of another door.

“From now on, all Hell breaks loose.”

She nudges at Bofur's briefcase.

“I guess you have something in there that'll help.”

Broadbeam grins his terrifying predatory grin before pulling a grenade out. _Have a good day :)_ has been written on it in crude yellow letters.

“Of _course_ I do.” he snarls, a machine ready for war, and then he's opening the door with a kick, tearing the safety pin out and throwing it into the lobby.

 _Mischief and madness and mayhem_.

Nori laughs as he runs over to an upturned table and Bofur lets another bomb go. Nori uses the table as a platform to jump off of, and then the security guard that was running towards him falls back, eyes wide in surprise, as a kunai lodges itself deep in his jugular.

In the chaos that follows, through fire and smoke and soot and dust and panic, Bilbo is sure he hears triplet dogs snarling their rage, but it might just be a trick of the mind. Nori skits across the floor and slashes another man's knees, this time with a hunting knife, blood spraying his face as the man topples forward. Bofur shoots another in the head. Dwalin breaks a few necks, Thorin shatters a few sterna.

Smaug sees all this from the monitors in his office, narrows his eyes and makes a call.

And then Bilbo is _absolutely positive_ he hears three white wolves' jaws snapping inches from his calves. He runs faster, following Thrush and DuCarc.

Esgaroth springs up from the position he's been crouched in on the roof in time to dodge a fist and open fire with his handgun on the hunk barreling towards him. The man, bleeding from the wounds the CIA agent's just inflicted him, collides headfirst with Esgaroth's stomach at a maddening speed, and for a moment the American fears they'll both fall. He manages to gain his footing, slamming his feet into the concrete roof and cursing himself for not having heard him earlier, before burying one hand in the man's cheek and repeatedly hitting his face with the other, finally managing to shove him off the building.

He crashes to the ground some odd three feet from Thranduil with a sickly crack.

Esgaroth catches his breath and swallows, readies for whoever else may come his way.

“This way!” Alice screams through the smoke that makes her cough. Roac is right behind her and Bilbo literally throws himself at the flight of stairs they're already running up, glancing behind him for Thorin. He's following close behind. The Golden Trio, on the other hand, have a few more claws to bear, as Dwalin opens fire on the thugs that are seemingly never ending- it's then that his brain realizes the fire alarm's been going the entire time.

It seems to Bilbo the dogs' snarling is gone- but he's not sure, he's not sure, _he's not sure_. He reaches the landing breathlessly, and Nori, Bofur and Dwalin are suddenly crowding behind him. Thorin's in front of him, eyes blazing (half of his mind is in Swindon, United Kingdom, the other half is in Khabul, Afghanistan and he couldn't care less) and then Thrush is leading them down a hallway. Luckily, Thorin's still present enough to grab her by the arm and drag her back before she gets riddled with bullets from a machine gun. Alice crashes into his chest and quickly thanks him. Nori and Bofur race past her.

Bilbo never sees what happens around the corner in the five minutes they do their job.

All he knows is that when he turns it, the men are dead and Nori's arms are soaked in blood up to the elbows. Bofur's looking a little better, but there's this light of madness in his eyes that just won't seem to let go of his face, and it smiles _it smiles it smiles_.

And both of them are maniacally breathless.

Bilbo realizes that despite liking Broadbeam, he is bloody terrified of him.

Thrush leads them to what Thorin realizes is Smaug's office. His hands shake, violently, one last time.

He is both ready and not ready for this.

He is both calm and electric and both aggressive and desperate and both glad and sad and he is _not ready_ , not at all. But he knows he has to do it.

He shoots the glass doors with surprising ease, and they shatter, he opens them.

The office is empty. Alice and Roac blink at each other, for a moment, taken aback, and then Roac is throwing xemself at the computer on the desk, quickly tearing xyr way through the numerous layers of security. But xe can go so far: and then it's Bilbo's turn, Bilbo who can bypass anything, Bilbo who doesn't bother slipping Ring on because they couldn't make their presence any clearer, Bilbo whose palms are sweating and who glances, from time to time, wearily, at Bofur who doesn't even notice him, caught up as he is in keeping the office perimeter safe.

Thorin would want to scream, but it doesn't matter that much if Goldmünze isn't there- there will be time to find him, track him down, tear him to pieces. There will be time.

Esgaroth grabs his rifle and shoots three men that were about to pounce on the group beneath him. Oin glances up all of a sudden, startled, and all Esgaroth does is flick two fingers off his forehead in a mock military salute. Oin nods back.

“ _Anytime_ , grandpa.” Esgaroth mutters to himself.

Bilbo furrows his brow and stops typing all of a sudden.

“This... this doesn't make sense.”

“ _What_ doesn't make sense?” Thorin snarls.

Bilbo looks up at him, at loss.

“A.R.K.E.N.S.T.O.N.E. isn't in here.”

Esgaroth starts wondering what's taking everyone so long, as he keeps an eye on the now relatively calm surroundings. The mayhem- the _real_ mayhem, is happening inside, and he knows this.

Thorin looks completely void of any feeling, for a fraction of an instant his eyes are so dull even Alice, who hardly even knows him ( _personally_ , that is) is scared. And then he slams an open palm an inch from the keyboard, making Bilbo jump in his seat, and narrows his eyes, cruel, at the hacker.

“ _You're lying_.”

“What? What? I'm not- I'm not! It's not in here!”

The change startles Bilbo so much he's swimming, desperately, in a sea of words and panic that will make his excuses sound phony without a doubt, so he just turns the monitor towards Thorin to show him he's telling the truth.

“ _See_? It's not in here!”

Thorin bares his teeth in a guttural, animal snarl (this is nothing but a premonition, this is nothing but a terrible unhappy omen of things to come), but MacFundin suddenly yelps, “More are coming!” and everyone realizes they need to get out of there. They need to get out of there _fast_. A.R.K.E.N.S.T.O.N.E. or no A.R.K.E.N.S.T.O.N.E.

Right now, they need to get _out_.

Alice and DuCarc are leading the pack once again, the Trio circling Bilbo and Thorin like a mis-matched, lethal, psychotic group of dogs protecting the pups (Thorin's never seen Dwalin brush his fingertips so delicately on the surface blood, he's never seen him like this, never seen him so cruel and ferocious and _free_ , at least in his eyes, because in truth the weight of his own sins crushes Dwalin with devastating ease) and Bofur lets another grenade go.

By now, Esgaroth can hear the police sirens getting closer. “ _Come on come on come on_ ,” he snarls, cracking his knuckles nervously.

It's when they're almost at the exit that Thrush suddenly stops, immobile in the middle of the room, hair falling in front of her face.

The red roses blossoms in her leg, in her shoulder, in her stomach. For a moment, she sees white. For a moment, she is floating. Thorin shoots the man some ten feet behind her (he was using a suppressor) but he runs away before any bullets hit their target (Oakenshield decides not to tell about the fact that he was missing an arm. Thorin decides to tell himself he made that up).

“Oh no. No. No no no.” Bilbo hears DuCarc mutter as everything around them comes crashing down, both metaphorically and not.

Xe rushes over to xyr friend and quickly grabs her before she collapses.

Roac turns towards Bilbo and Thorin as xe hoists Alice's arm around his shoulders. She is deadly pale. She is barely breathing. Unreality cloaks them all like a much too large jacket that fits wrong and makes the shoulders look awkward.

“Go.” she says.

“ _What_? We're not leaving-”

“Go, Baggins. All of you. Now. We'll be okay.”

Roac's face tells Bilbo an entirely different story, but Bofur's already grabbing his arm.

When they're outside and reality is somewhat of a more tangible thing, Esgaroth asks: “Alice and Roac?”

But all Bilbo can do is look desolate.

* * *

There's a car (a Jeep Cherokee) outside Roac's trailer that no one in the company recognizes. Except for Esgaroth, who sighs to himself as he stares at it for a few moments.

He knows who's waiting inside Roac's home.

He dreads the fact he'll have to look her in the eye and admit his failure.

Esgaroth opens the door to the caravan and, as dawn starts trickling into the sky, meets face to face with Bryanna “Beorn” MacMathúin.

She stands up immediately upon seeing him.

“Hey, Bry.” Esgaroth murmurs weakly. She scans the people as they step in and then realizes a piece is missing.

The exhaustion hits Bilbo like a truck, straight in the shoulders and the head. He's not in pain, but maybe pain would be better than this vague sense of discomfort that only intensifies when his gaze meets Beorn's face, although she isn't looking at him- the only person she has eyes for is Esgaroth.

She looks beyond desperate.

She looks desolate, as her eyes flick from the crowd back to Esgaroth and then to Tauriel whom she doesn't know, to Thranduil whom she _does_ know, to Nori and Bofur and Dwalin, to Thorin who looks emptier than ever. But there's a bigger empty in her throat.

“Where're Roac and Alice?”

Esgaroth sighs and swallows hard. He knows he is red-eyed despite himself, he knows his cheeks will flood soon, despite himself. Beorn stares at him and pulls her hands out of his grasp.

“No.”

It's a single word, and it hurts- God, it hurts. Even Kili lowers his eyes. One of them mattered, if not both.

“Alice.”

They have their answer, a shaky name trembled past Beorn's gritting teeth. She's crying, openly. And then she screams.

“YOU HAD TO KEEP HER _SAFE_!”

Esgaroth looks like he's just been stabbed.

“I had to keep both of them safe.” he whispers, very quietly.

Beorn bounces her fists off her friend's chest, as tall as he is, as strong. Esgaroth grabs her wrists and she's trying to breathe. Tauriel takes a step forward, but Thranduil stills her. Slowly, both Beorn and Esgaroth sink to the floor, or rather: she sinks, he tries to keep her afloat.

“You had to keep _her safe_.”

“I know.” he answers, clutching her.

Bilbo feels disgusted with himself.

This is something none of them are supposed to witness. This is something between Beorn and Esgaroth, and no one else. He feels vulgar, watching. He feels revolting and guilty, so he turns around and steps outside. He considers lighting himself a cigarette but instead sees someone slowly limping their way from a car towards DuCarc's caravan.

Two people, actually, although one is basically dragging herself along, teeth clenched. Bilbo's jaw drops.

“Oh. Oh my God.”

It's a sudden pang of joy he feels, golden and red rushing through him as the sun soars high in the sky, “Oh my _God_!” he yells, louder. Fili and Kili push their way outside and Fili's suddenly laughing and clapping, and so's Ori. Bilbo Baggins is a gentle soul.

Roac helps Alice climb the steps. She's very pale, very shaky. It's a miracle she's standing.

Beorn stares at her and then both she and Esgaroth stand up, look like they've seen a ghost.

Beorn steps forward.

“You. You're alive.” is all she says, sniffling, before cupping Alice's pale face with both her hands and pressing her still trembling lips against hers. She tastes Alice's blood.

It feels like darkness is melting, all of a sudden. Dwalin has the very strong, very scary need to cry. But he pushes the tears back and lets his mustache tremble only once.

Alice's knees give out, but this time there's Beorn to hold her, and Beorn can hear herself say, “Keep your eyes open, sweetheart, please.”

Alice tries. Oh, _how she tries_.

“Can you get us to a hospital?” Roac asks MacMathúin as xe hands Esgaroth a blueprint. Beorn swallows and eyes Thrush, who's eyes roll back for a moment and she glances back towards her friend.

“There's no time to get her to your house, Bry.”

“ _Beorn_.”

I'm sorry.”

Beorn sighs and swallows, tears still blocking her breathing- “Oh, oh God, our cover's blown anyway, isn't it?”

Roac nods.

“So they'll come after us anyway, won't they?”

Roac doesn't know what to answer.

MacMathúin gingerly picks up Alice in her arms. The girl grabs onto her girlfriend's neck and smiles at Esgaroth from over Beorn's shoulder. It's all she can do- she's already lost _so much blood_.

“Good luck.” Esgaroth says, and smiles back. He waits for the caravan door to slam shut behind Roac, Alice and Bryanna and then looks at the blueprint he's still holding.

“Oh, _great_.”

Sarcasm.

“What is it?” Bilbo asks.

“It's Roac's _plan B_ ,” The CIA agent turns the blueprint around so everyone can see: it's clearly someone's home. Bilbo thinks he knows who's.

“Oh my God. But you said-”

“It's called _desperation_ , Baggins. I've just lost two of my best agents and my tech whiz. All I'm left with is _you_.”

It stings, slightly, but Baggins decides not to let it hurt him too much.

“And the only way I can even possibly have any hopes of beating Smaug is to snuff him out where hthinks he's perfectly safe.”

And then Thorin's stomach feels as if it's being torn out, ever so slightly. A discomfort and a disquiet suddenly settle themselves in his bones. Without a word, he knows he has to step outside. Oakenshield gingerly avoids Alice's pool of blood, and when fresh air hits him and the rickety door slams behind him, he knows exactly what's happening: the wave crashes on top of him and he lets it drown him without fighting it back, not a care in this world.

 _Let it come_. He knew this would happen.

He lets the flashback take him in its arms and kiss its poison kiss until it is satiated with what little sanity he has left to give.

When his mind crawls back into its place he is breathless, heart pounding, not knowing where the last fifteen minutes went, not knowing anything at all, crouched on the concrete. He looks down, and he sees his un-bandaged arm (when did he roll his sleeve up?) torn apart by deep gashes he knows are self-inflicted.

“Are you all right?”

Bilbo's standing next to him, looking very, _very_ worried. Thorin stares at him, blinks the sunlight out of his eyes. The cuts in his arm sting. He squints, and behind Bilbo, he sees Dwalin. Dwalin who knows, Dwalin who looks like his heart's just been torn apart. Dwalin whom he's broken.

“I'm fine,” Thorin mutters, standing up.

 _You are losing your mind_.

* * *

The area is maddeningly quiet, Thorin thinks, and his skull for a moment feels as if it's about to split in two. A dull thud, nothing more, for a moment.

He swallows and buries his face in his hand and massages his temples. His arm is screeching in obnoxious pinpricks of pain into his mouth, he can taste the feeling of his nails clawing at his flesh, although he does not remember doing it, and he knows it should scare him but in truth he is welcoming the feeling with open arms.

He holds his gun and presses his back against the wall.

“Why is it so _quiet_?” Dori asks and Thorin replies, even quieter:

“Because he's _playing_.”

And everyone there know he is: Thorin and Esgaroth are pretty sure they've already been spotted and are currently being observed. Nori _knows_ this for certain, as he's noticed the surveillance camera right above their heads.

He flips the bird at it and grins.

Fili moves ahead of Thorin and crouches in front of the door, lockpick in hand, hair swept back with his usual sweatband.

It's funny, to walk in so plainly, and calmly, and quietly.

The home is enormous, cavernous and dark.

Thranduil whines very quietly, fearing the worst.

But the worst does not come. The group walks through the entrance hall undisturbed (it reminds Thorin of Oakenshield Manor, and this thought hurts exactly where it's supposed to). They tread, carefully, on what they know is a mine field ready to explode.

And their heartbeats collapse and echo as loud as their footsteps. Bilbo feels his mouth taste of metal.

But there's no _Lacrymosa_ this time, no phone calls, no speakers, no tricks. This time, it's all plain and simple. _Too_ plain and simple.

Esgaroth stops, all of a sudden and gestures to the rest to come close.

“All right. According to the map, Smaug's office is upstairs. Here's what we're going to do. Bilbo- Bilbo, we're going to have to need you to break into Smaug's computer. His personal one. And you're going to have to go in on your own.”

Baggins pulls back from him almost immediately.

“ _Alone_?”

“Alone. Yeah. Like before, the more we are, the more attention we attract upon ourselves.”

“He'll kill me.”

“I'll be right there backing you up. Smaug's study has an overhead balcony accessible through a backdoor. I'll keep an eye on you from there. We both will,” Esgaroth says, patting his rifle as if it were a dog. “The others'll stand by and listen,” they'd brought earpieces and transmitters along, before Esgaroth set fire to Roac's caravan to destroy all evidence, “and stay put unless things get _real_ nasty.”

“Which means unless either me, or you, or both get fatally wounded, am I right?”

The flatness and sarcasm in Bilbo's tone surprise even himself.

Esgaroth doesn't miss a beat, “Pretty much, yeah.”

“Well that sounds _lovely_.”

“Welcome to the game, Bilbo Baggins. Or should I call you _Burglar_?”

Baggins stares at the CIA agent and then swallows, hardly surprised at this point. He glances over at Thorin, and his eyes tell the other man, “Don't worry, I'm keeping my promise.”

“All right. Let's do this.”

He feels very much like he's about to die. But on the other hand, he's promised. And Bilbo Baggins is not the type of person who feels comfortable breaking promises.

* * *

“Can you hear us?”

“Loud and clear.” Esgaroth whispers back to Thorin, smirking as he makes his way up the dark stairs. Bilbo swallows and stands in front of Smaug's study's door.

Balin stands next to him.

“You know, you don't... you don't have to do this.”

Bilbo shakes his head, “No, I promised.”

“You see, lad. Thorin... Thorin has a tendency of doing this to people.”

Bilbo quickly switches the earpiece off and answers, “Doing what?”

“Manipulating them into situations they actually don't want. He doesn't... God, he doesn't do it on purpose. It's just how... he's made.”

It hurts him to say these things, this Bilbo can see. But he promptly shakes his head.

“No. I... I want to do this. I promised I'd do this. Thorin needs me to do this.”

The eldest MacFundin brother placidly stares at the hacker for a few seconds, and then whispers, “You're a brave little man, Bilbo Baggins.”

Bilbo knows he's blushing despite himself. And then he takes a deep breath, switches the earpiece back on, makes sure he has Ring safe in his hand, and opens the study doors.

It's dark, the light from outside traces a single terrifying blade across the floor, brushing against the feet of the desk. Bilbo briskly makes his way to it, and finds the laptop open there.

This doesn't sit right with him, once again he knows something's wrong. But yet again he doesn't trust his instinct (the first time he did so was when he boarded a plane to Cambodia, and look where that's gotten him now, and he's changed and he's bled and he is another man, different from the one that left, but he is happy about it. He has found himself again, found his rage, his emotion, his lust for risk, the jovial ignorance and recklessness that led him to break into MI5 so many years ago.

He hasn't felt this close to _himself_ in a long, long time.)

Baggins sits down at the desk and plugs Ring into the USB port- the red lights light up immediately, and he starts typing, ignoring his trembling hands. The security here is heavier than the one in the office's computer, and he expected this, too. He swallows and furrows his brow.

“Come on, come on, _come on_.”

He realizes he has no idea what A.R.K.E.N.S.T.O.N.E. is. Is it a _.doc_ file? An _.exe_ one? What _is_ Advanced Research and Kommunication Elements within National Security Terminals and Organizations for the Neutralization of Evil?

It's a folder.

Bilbo pulls out Thorin's black USB key- the one G gave him in his dining room, and God that evening is hazy right now, it feels like an entire other life- and starts transferring the files into it.

His heart explodes, he's sure of it.

It's.

Christ.

It's done. It's _done_. They've found A.R.K.E.N.S.T.O.N.E., Thorin can finally have some peace, he's found himself again, he's proven himself, he's-

There's the click of a tongue then, a disapproving repeated click. And then a small laugh. And up in the shadows, Esgaroth's eyes widen and he mutters, “Oh. Oh _shit_.”

Bilbo freezes. Tries to swallow. Realizes he can't.

A gun being loaded. More footsteps.

“ _Get in the light_ , you fucking bastard.” Esgaroth thinks.

And then a voice: cool, cruel, calculating.

The voice of a man with sharp teeth and sharp claws and porcelain-perfect hands.

“My my Mister Baggins, _what a mess we have here_.”

Bilbo shuts his eyes.

Smaug chuckles.


	29. iii

Balin turns his head towards Thorin. Thorin stares at him. Thorin swallows.

"We go in, _now_."

"No, Balin."

"He's going to get killed."

"Esgaroth has his back. Just give them time."

"Time? Time for  _what_? For Smaug to shoot Bilbo in the  _head_?"

Bilbo feels the tip of Smaug's gun briefly rest against his temple, and he feels his heart ram its way into his throat and suffocate him. He swallows. 

Smaug slips a pale hand against the laptop and quickly unplugs the USB.

"Naughty,  _naughty_  boy."

Esgaroth manages to catch a glimpse of him, but that's all he gets before Smaug is back in the dark, before Smaug disappears again and the only sign Bilbo has of his presence is the gun just lightly pressed against the back of his head.

" _Shit_. I can't get a clear shot." Esgaroth mutters at Thorin who replies, "Just stay put. Stay  _put_."

Smaug clicks his tongue.

"Look at you, playing hero. Acting oh so. Important. Tell me, Mister Baggins, how does it feel to be back in the  _game_?"

Bilbo swallows loudly, "The? The game?"

"Oh, you know  _exactly_  what I'm talking about. The thrill of the chase, the hacking, the code-cracking. This is what you were... born for, after all, isn't it?"

The gun presses a little harder. Bilbo lets out an involuntary yelp but bites his tongue before it gets louder than a whisper.

"Lying and  _snitching_  and  _stealing_  and crawling into those tiny little cracks where you're not supposed to be."

Bilbo sees, out of the corner of his eye, bluish in the laptop's lights, Smaug making the USB key roll across his knuckles with mind-boggling dexterity. Those perfect, perfect hands. Those murderous, terrifying hands. Hands that hold the fate of the world in their grasp, hands that wouldn't do as much as hurt a  _fly_. But they could type out the order to have its wings ripped off.

Oh, they could do that  _very_   _well_  indeed.

The gun runs along the nape of Bilbo's neck and presses against the soft part where his skull meets the vertebrae and Baggins doesn't know whether to cry or scream. There's breath close to Bilbo's ear and a low, low growl, and both fuel the nightmare and make it burn brighter, scarier:

"But there'll always be someone ready to _rat you out_ , don't you worry."

"I'm not worrying."

Bilbo's first lie. But not the last. Not now. Not later.

Thorin laces his hands together and rests his forehead against them, greets the bare whisper of Esgaroth's voice once more:

"Do you  _hear_  what's going on down there?"

"Yes."

"He's going to kill him. There should be a light switch-"

"Give Baggins time."

Esgaroth is quiet for a few seconds.

"Wha-  _why_?"

"Because if the lights go on, Bilbo's dead. Give him time. I _trust him_."

A lie.

The first of Thorin's many.

The first of a series of lies that will trickle from water to wave, from lone rock to landslide, from flame to fire, from madness to tragedy. And back. Ultimately, he will lead the lambs to slaughter.

The CIA sniper grits his teeth and adjusts his position.

“Do not lie, Baggins. I do not like it when people lie to me.”

Bilbo shakes his head, as casual as he can manage, “I'm not lying. It's the truth, I'm not worried.”

“Why wouldn't you be worried, Bilbo Baggins?”

The name rings against Smaug's vocal chords with almost comical alliteration, he emphasizes the _b_ s and and the _g_ s and his teeth are exposed in a feral, cruel snarl that sends a chill down Esgaroth's spine, down Thorin's spine, down Bilbo's.

Balin stares sternly at the transceiver sitting on the table in front of them. He's the only one staying put, alongside Thorin: the others are scrambled around the kitchen (big, of course, and seemingly never used- it's so clean it's terrifying) on the ground floor. Thranduil is smoking.

“Can I have one?”

Greenleaf blankly stares at Tauriel for a second, baffled. It takes him a few moments to snap out of it.

“You don't. Smoke. You don't smoke. You. You don't, do you?”

She shrugs and hugs her elbows, “I think I need one right now.”

He doesn't ask any other questions: it's her tired little smile, her “I'm all right, it's all right, _we're gonna be all right_ ” smile that betrays the terror churning within that gives him the answers he needs. He gives her a cigarette without saying anything else. She scuttles close to him, and their shoulders touch.

Thranduil flinches without even noticing. He's not entirely embarrassed about it, the flinch is warm and burrows inside his chest like an unlikely bunny rabbit (trembling, yes, and scared, and oh so very delicate) in a very cold garden, looking for scraps of salad in the snow. It's a bunny he hadn't felt in a while, and it makes him happy. He smiles at her.

Her smile widens ever so slightly and loses some of its terror.

Smaug sighs, loud and melodramatic: there is an undeniable note of absolute hilarity in his cold, deep voice.

“You are an _idiot_ , Bilbo Baggins.”

He smirks and Bilbo sees that he's placed the USB key inches from the laptop's keyboard, close and taunting, but Baggins knows that if he reaches over, he's dead. It's been put there solely to trap him, to let him know that he's lost the game and so has Oakenshield- whatever game they had been playing- it's been put there to remind the world that Smaug Goldmünze takes as he pleases, and there's no stopping him, there's no begging, there's no crying. There's just bowing your head, there's just waiting for the bullet to hit.

“An idiot?”

Bilbo doesn't know if his voice has betrayed the absolute fear that is currently governing him, because there's a dragon curling around his neck and its teeth bite in where the gun is kissing his flesh.

“Yes. Wasting your talents this way. Dying... like a cockroach, for a selfish selfish man, cowering in a corner, begging for mercy.”

Bilbo swallows and asks, “Wasting my talents?”

His eyes stay fixed on the key so close to his left hand. If he does as much as move a pinky, he knows his brains will adorn the wallpaper. And to drive the point home, Smaug _tsk_ s and taps the gun, lightly, against the hacker's temple, “What makes you think Thorin _cares_ about you, Bilbo Baggins?”

Thorin clenches his jaw.

“He's using you, _Burglar_ , the same way he's used every single person that's ever come into his life. But then again, it seems you have a habit of trusting psychopaths.”

The last word is a sticky concoction of acid and petrol that Smaug smears all over Thorin's face, and Thorin flinches, and knows that in the quietness of the kitchen, that word's clapped and clanged against everyone's eardrums. Dwalin swallows but doesn't manage to forget his feeling of impending doom- or the guilt that hit again as strong as ever the moment he saw Thorin's arms, a criss cross of flakes of peeling skin and angry red.

_Not again_ , is all he can think. _Please, not again_.

Smaug glances up, and keen eyes spot the almost invisible glint of a rifle in the overhead darkness.

He smirks, and knows he is absolutely winning.

“Oakenshield will get A.R.K.E.N.S.T.O.N.E. and leave you to the _wolves_ , Bilbo. He will watch you take the blame for all the things he's done and help them make you sink, because all that matters is the prize. And you are certainly not part of the equation. No one else is.”

Tap tap goes the gun against Bilbo's temple, tap tap goes his heart that's about to burst.

“Oh, but you can hear me yourself, Thorin, can't you?”

There is a long agonizing, crackling second during which everyone's heart, except for Smaug's, stops beating.

“I know you're there, Thorin.”

Thorin's eyes are burning a bit too bright for comfort.

His mind is that far from snapping: Thorin Oakenshield hasn't slept in days. And it is becoming scary. It is poisoning his blood. It will lead him to his downfall.

“How stupid of you, Thorin, to think you'd have the wits and means to beat me. _You_ , of all people. Just a sad little boy who only wanted Daddy to love him. But Daddy didn't care. Daddy would've never been happy either way.”

Thorin clenches his fists and knows that his nails are kissing small crescent moons into his flesh. His pulse quickens, and he can feel Balin's worrisome eyes stuck to the back of his head. You are playing with fire, little boy. You are tampering with things better left untouched.

You are waking the wyvern.

Esgaroth bites his lower lip and feels his legs start to cramp. He bares his teeth for a second and wipes a strand of rebel hair behind his ear. His nerves are starting to split at the tip.

He needs to see Smaug dead, and he wants him dead with the least collateral damage possible.

As things often go, he is wrong about one of those two things.

He is horribly, horribly wrong.

Bilbo glances to the left and finds the USB gone. It's back in Smaug's grip, no longer taunting, simply known to be there: Bilbo doesn't know which was worse. Now the thing he is about to die for is out of his sight, a little less real. What is real, though, about a line of code?

Everything, and that is the truth.

The liters of blood that have been spilled are more than necessary proof.

“Move, Baggins.”

Bilbo's mind freezes.

“What?”

On the other side of the transceiver, there's the sudden sickly smack of the butt of a gun hitting a jaw. Balin stands up but Thorin grabs hold of his arm. He is suddenly pale.

_Not yet_ , his eyes say. _Not yet. If we move, he is dead_.

( _If we move, Esgaroth loses his window of opportunity and I lose A.R.K.E.N.S.T.O.N.E. for good_ ).

“ _Oakenshield_.”

_A little too loud_ , Dwalin thinks- the American sniper sounds more than distressed.

“Just _hang on in there,_ Esgaroth.”

Oh Robert, _please._ Let's stop playing games.”

Thorin suddenly freezes and knows he's staring at the transceiver with a borderline comical expression of utter disbelief. But there's no hilarity. There's just an unheard, unseen, unnoticed scream of complete utter horror exploding inside his brain.

Up on the balcony, Esgaroth has lowered his gun and is currently staring at the darkness below. Smaug's hands are typing away at the keyboard.

No.

One hand, just one hand is typing. The other is pointing a gun at Bilbo, whose mouth is slightly bleeding. The rest of him is shrouded in darkness, except for his face, and he's positioned so that Robert cannot tell precisely where his temple is.

A small detail.

Which, later on, he will hate himself for.

He will lose sleep at night because of it.

He will blame himself and Thorin Charles Oakenshield and wonder whom he hates more.

“Oh, sweetheart, you thought you were _safe_ , didn't you? But I can call you Robert, can't I? How about Robbie? Robbie sounds nice, it sounds sweet.”

Smaug finishes typing and turns the laptop more or less towards where Bard is hiding. It shows a video feed.

I'm sorry. You can't see so high up, can you, you little _maggot_?”

There is a hint of a bemused hiss between Smaug's front teeth, as his tongue presses against them to slither out the _s_ 's in his words. A persistent, ever-present hideous chuckle. He clicks his tongue for the millionth time and then sets the feed to full screen.

“Here you go.”

What Bilbo sees is a man tied to a chair, blond hair and light eyes and a well-kept stubble. He's conventionally handsome if it weren't for the black eye and the blood pouring from his nose and the look of absolute terror that his pretty eyes betray. Behind him stand two men wearing ski masks.

“Robbie?”

What Robert “Esgaroth” Bard from Laketown, Michigan, United States hears is the voice of his fiancé, Chris.

And he is absolutely certain that he stops breathing and never starts again.

“Oakenshield. I need the lights, now.”

Thorin bites his lower lip and ignores the tremor in Bard's voice.

“Robbie, Rob, are you there?”

The other man sounds terrified, his voice even more distorted by a shaky connection and a low-quality microphone. It hiccups into a glitch in the feed, and for a moment becomes the stuff of nightmares.

“ _Oakenshield_.”

“If the lights go on, Bilbo's dead.”

Robert has to calm his nearly clenching hands for a moment. He's about to yell. If he yells, it's all fucked. If he keeps quiet, there might still be a chance.

“Thorin.”

He pleads, and he realizes it comes to him surprisingly well. Some part of him wishes to hear Thorin's voice beg the way his is right now- he does not know this, but it will. Just give it time, Robbie. It will, _it will_.

“I told you not to stick your nose in other people's business, Robert, I _warned you_.” Smaug continues, mocking.

“Robbie, are you there?”

“Oh, _shut him up_.”

Bilbo flinches when one of the masked men's fists collide with the blond man's jaw. It looks like he spits something out of his mouth, saliva and blood, but it's hard to tell with such a low-quality image. The man's whine, though, is unmistakable.

He shall be the first lamb to be slaughtered.

“Please. The lights. Please.”

_Not yet_ , Thorin thinks. _Not yet. Not yet not yet not yet_. _I can't lose A.R.K.E.N.S.T.O.N.E. when I'm this close to it._

“But you just didn't listen, did you? You just couldn't _listen_ , you just couldn't stay put. And look where this has gotten you.”

“Rob. Rob, please. Are you there? Robert? _Robbie darling_?”

_Robbie darling Robbie darling Robbie darling dearest dead_ -

“But you see, everything has a price.”

Bilbo's eyes widen. “Oh God no,” he mutters, despite himself. He's realized what's about to happen.

Bard's hands tremble so violently he thinks he'll go mad, “Thorin.”

“Robert? Please? Robert.”

What Bilbo sees is a gun getting pointed against Chris' temple. What Bilbo sees is Chris' chest hitching when he takes what he knows will be his last breath.

“Robert. Tell the kids, I'm. Tell the kids I'm sorry, please? Tell Sigrid and Tilda and Bain-”

“OAKENSHIELD-”

This time Bard yells and doesn't care.

Behind Thorin, Dwalin's stood up and it takes his brain a moment to realize he's running out of the kitchen without even a second thought.

( _There should be a light switch_ -).

“THE LIGHTS. _PLEASE_.”

Tauriel suddenly grabs Thranduil's hand and squeezes. He looks at it, looks at her, squeezes back. She doesn't let go.

“No.”

“ _OAKENSHIELD, FUCK_.”

Dwalin's racing madly, opened the control box, frantically searching for the right switch.

“Robert? I lov-”

The transceiver explodes with the sound of a crackling shot being fired.

Dwalin throws the switch labelled _study_.

And then there's two more shots, there's Tauriel letting go of Thranduil's hand and pressing her palms to her mouth to quell the scream, and the cigarette discarded on the floor and there's Thorin staring at nothing as if he's been stabbed in the back, and then comes a definite, terrifying silence.

Kili reduces his breathing to a whisper, scared that it'll be too loud, that it'll break the air around him and he will suffocate on the shards.

But the quiet is too deep to break.

Fili counts how many breaths it takes. In, out, one, two, three, four, oh _please be all right_ -

The door to the kitchen opens and slams shut behind a panting Dwalin who doesn't even dignify Thorin of any look whatsoever. In the chilling, unreal quietness that's following what's just happened (and nobody can really wrap their fragile minds around it) they hear footsteps drawing closer.

And then a ghost of a man walks inside the room. Bilbo is close behind, looking tentative, blood matting the front of his shirt. He looks irremediably changed.

“...Bilbo?” Balin tentatively asks.

“I'm all right,” comes the hacker's trembling voice, “he. Smaug. He got hit first, the. The. The bullet missed me.”

Robert Bard is pale, and Robert Bard is slightly shaking. His rifle is discarded on the balcony floor, the only bullet that ever mattered shot a nanosecond too late.

Thorin takes a step forward, “Esgaroth-”

Bard's fist collides with Thorin's face. Before Oakenshield can recover, another blow collides with his left ear. Bard's knee hits his stomach, Thorin's back hits the floor, Bard's suddenly on top of him, teeth bared, eyes alight.

His hands are wrapping around Thorin's neck.

And they are squeezing.

Thorin grabs the other's shirt, gropes for purchase. The rest is swimming through thick blood. The rest is oxygen cut off from the brain. The rest is the knife hidden in Robert's belt making an appearance, and then Tauriel is jumping forward, Dwalin is too, and they're wrestling Bard off of Thorin's panting body.

Esgaroth breaks free of their grasp with an agonized wail and his hair is a wild mess that's broken free of its ponytail.

None of them move.

Thorin crawls backward and forces himself into a sitting position, his tongue tastes metallic, he sees stars when he blinks.

Robert stares at him with empty eyes. Robert stares at him and thinks about spitting at him. He doesn't, despite wanting to.

“I should kill you. _Every inch of me is telling me to kill you_ ,” he mutters.

Bilbo feels two USB keys safe in his back pocket: a small golden one and a shiny black one. He glances at Thorin and then at Bard.

“But I won't. Because he wouldn't have wanted me to do that.”

Robert shrugs Dwalin's hand off of his shoulder.

“I hope one day you'll realize all the _shit_ you've done, Oakenshield.”

_And I hope the guilt kills you_.

(Oh, it already is).

* * *

Fili is tiptoeing along a razor-sharp, razor-thin line, and there's horror on one side and apathy on the other. Right now, he feels neither.

His brother is walking behind him, of course, and for some reason Bilbo asked to come along and follow them up into the attic. He couldn't stand being close to Oakenshield, whose very skin feels like it's about to set itself on fire, and, understandably, going close to Smaug's study makes him uneasy.

Despite the body having been dragged to a corner, despite Bard and his rifle being gone God knows where (he's trekking under the rain towards nowhere in particular, he's just called his boss' PA Alfrid back in Washington D.C. to resign, he has kids to take care of, he has a funeral to arrange, he has a sanity to find again), despite the hunt being over Bilbo feels like a rat, he feels like his hands are dirty with blood.

He feels like Smaug's words branded him as something less than human (he feels like keeping A.R.K.E.N.S.T.O.N.E. from Thorin any longer will do much, much worse. But some part of him is telling to stop, and Bilbo Baggins' instincts are seldom wrong).

He met Chris' eyes only for a few seconds and Chris himself was not aware they were staring at each other, but those desperate greens will definitely haunt him for years to come.

The nightmares are waiting just around the corner, ready to make themselves at home.

Kili shrugs and rattles the doorknob to yet another locked door. The sound is enough to fill his echoing chest, rocks being thrown against the side of a well by children testing its depth.

In Kili's case they fall forever and into never ending blackness.

“Could you stop doing that?” Fili snaps. His head is pounding, and the razor blade feels on the verge of gutting him. Kili shrugs in reply and shakes the doorknob to the one next to it.

Fili's about to snarl an insult at him.

“I promise I'll be good this time.” comes the tiny tiny voice from behind it. Kili's hand stops in mid-air. He turns towards his older sibling, who's staring at the door. He turns towards Bilbo, who looks baffled.

“Hello?” Fili asks almost without thinking.

“Hello?” the voice asks back.

It's a child. It is definitely a child. A small, tired, lonely child.

_What the fuck is going on_? Kili thinks, as his brother crouches in front of the keyhole. Fili peers in, and his eye meets a staggering greenish blue one. The kid on the other side quickly moves away from the door.

“Hello, sweetheart,” Fili whispers. This entire situation is both surreal and terrifying. As he's talking, Fili's grabbed one of the bobby pins holding his hair-bun in place and started trafficking with the lock.

“What's your name?”

A dubious pause. And then, deciding to trust:

“Legolas. Are you- are you a friend of Daddy's?”

“Who's your Daddy, Legolas?”

( _Please don't be Smaug oh my God **please don't be Smaug**_ ).

“Thranduil.”

Fili nearly drops the pin and his heart is suddenly hitting a jackhammer against his throat. He turns towards Kili.

_Go get him_ , he mouths, and his brother, wide-eyed, sprints down the hall towards the direction they came from. Bilbo swallows, palms sweating, as Fili goes back to picking the lock.

“Yeah, Legolas. We're... we're friends of your Daddy.”

“What's your name?”

“Fili... My name's Fili, kiddo.”

“I'm scared.”

“I bet you are, Legolas. I really, really bet you are.”

“Are you a Daddy?”

“Who? Me?”

“Mhm.”

Fili sighs at the unexpected question and shuts his eyes for a second, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his free thumb and index finger.

_Jesus Christ, I didn't sign up for this_.

“I... I'm almost a Daddy. I'll be one in six months.”

Kili races down the stairs and skits to a halt in the huge entrance hall. Thranduil is staring outside of a window. He's dug through every nook and cranny he could think of, hoping to find any sign of his kid. He found none where he looked, and his pain is so deep he doesn't even know how he's still breathing. Tauriel is standing close but not touching- she doesn't want to hurt herself or him. They both feel like a perilous and unstable house of cards.

Thranduil is waiting for the gust of wind that will make him crash down.

“Green- Greenleaf?” Kili asks. Thranduil stares up at him, eyes dull. Kili swallows when he sees them, scared despite himself (but after all he's just a kid, expecting bravery from him is simple madness).

“What is it?”

Thranduil sounds miles away, even to himself.

“We found him.”

“And?”

A single word that sounds as if it's tearing the fabric of sanity to pieces.

“The kid's alive.”

Bilbo's staring at Fili with a sort of bewildered expression he can't really place himself- he guesses it's the idea of what will always be for him “one of the Oakenshield brats” being a father that sounds so utterly shocking. He guesses it's the fact he feels like he's about to evaporate.

This has undoubtedly been a very long morning.

Fili smiles, “...Yeah. Yeah my grandfather used to have a big dog just like yours. He was named Durin. What's yours named?”

“Elk!” peeps the voice on the other side of the door.

Fili stops working on the lock for a second, “...You have a dog named... Elk?”

“Yep!”

Legolas sounds utterly proud of this fact and for a moment any and all trace of fear in his voice is gone. Fili greets the sheer joy of that single syllable word with eternal gratefulness, and as he does so the lock finally clicks. He grins as the door slightly opens.

Right then, there's the frantic footsteps of a man who's basically trying to run not too fast, followed by a twenty-something kid and a police psychologist who're trying to keep up with him.

Thranduil reaches Bilbo and Fili and Fili quickly scuttles aside. Greenleaf knows he needs to calm himself, but there's this one part of him that's roaring with joy, this other part of him that's shrieking in panic, because how will he make this right? _How will he start fixing his kid, himself, their family_?

By opening the door, for a start. Which is exactly what he does.

A blond kid with gangly arms and unruly blond hair, thin, stares at his father who stares back at him. Thranduil suddenly seems to sag.

“Hey, Legs.”

It's all he can say. It's all he knows how to say, right now.

Hardly a greeting after all they've been through, but it will have to be enough.

“Daddy?”

“Hey.”

Tauriel smiles, presses a hand to her cheek and when Bilbo looks at her, her eyes are glistening with more than just the room's lights. Baggins knows it's tears.

Thranduil's knees give out as he grabs Legolas and buries his kid in his arms. Legolas clings to his father's shirt.

“ _Hey, you_.” Thranduil murmurs, voice cracking in all the right places. _I'm sorry_ , he wishes he could scream a million times, until his throat is raw and he has atoned for this horrible, horrible, unforgivable sin.

But for now he just holds onto his kid, and he gently rocks him back and forth, and Legs shuts his eyes, and Thranduil knows he's crying because he can taste his own tears and for a moment the deep, dark, tidal wave that is drowning them all clears of its murkiness, a single ray of sunlight shines through.

There will be time for apologies, there will be time for guilt, there will be time for redemption.

For now, Fili feels a knot in his throat and hopes he won't cry in public.

For now, the clouds burst, and sunlight weeps through.

* * *

Thorin's phone buzzes in his pocket.

Alone in Smaug's study, staring at the empty PC folder that used to hold his father's life's work, he stares at the blood splatter on the precious Persian rug and absent-mindedly checks the text he's just gotten.

It's a number he doesn't recognize.

The rest, though, some deep desperate part of him was waiting for.

[ message ] : Let's settle this once and for all. Army Road, number five. Come alone. - The White Rabbit


	30. iv

"Excuse me? Miss?"

The redhead looks away from Thranduil who's cradling a sleeping Legolas and meets Bilbo's distressed face.

"Can we talk?"

Tauriel blinks and furrows her brow. Thranduil hasn't heard: Bilbo's voice is barely a whisper and Greenleaf is nodding off himself.

"Sure." 

"Not here."

"What's... what's going on? And my name's Tauriel Sylvan, by the way-"

"Miss Sylvan-"

"Just Tauriel. Please."

"Ta... Tauriel. Yes. Can we go somewhere else?"

She hesitates.

"... __Please_ _?"

It's the pleading desperation in his voice that convinces her, so she nods and and feels her stomach drop a little, "All right."

Bilbo leads her right outside the sitting room, she leaves the door slightly ajar behind her. She surprises herself thinking that in case something happens to her, someone'll hear her scream. It leaves under her tongue a delicate and bitter taste of undefinable sadness and this vaguely irritates her in ways she doesn't really want to acknowledge yet. She clears her throat to help herself ignore it, and feels emptiness hit hard against her throat. 

Bilbo fidgets and then finally seems to decide on a course of action.

"I don't. I don't want anyone to know this. Not yet, at least."

"Know what?"

Out of Bilbo's pocket comes a USB key that, currently, holds the most important file in all of Great Britain- possibly Europe, possibly the world.

_The man with the key is king_ , and he is holding right onto it- but he does not want to rule. Bilbo Baggins was built for hacking, but he was not built to have the world at his feet.

He thinks Thorin Oakenshield isn't either.

"Is that-"

"A.R.K.E.N.S.T.O.N.E.? Yes."

Tauriel's eyes widen, her jaw drops.

"... _I can't take this_."

"I can't keep it. I- I don't  _want_  to keep it."

Sylvan sighs and rubs her temples, pressing down and squeezing her impending headache as deep back inside her brain as she can.

“Why not?”

The edge of nervous exasperation in her tone is sharp enough to make Bilbo flinch. He fidgets for a second that seems like a decade to the psychologist, and she is aware that the frustration she cannot control is making the corner of her mouth vibrate slightly, she can feel it: soon the tremor will move over to right under her right eye. She shakes her head a few times to shake the tic away.

“Because... because I'm scared of Thorin.”

An enormous weight has been lifted off of Bilbo's shoulders and he seems smaller, more tired. Paper thin- like too little butter scraped over too much bread.

It's a look that in the years to come will selfishly attach itself to his face and very rarely let go. This is a world that is shattering, and it still has so much more to shatter.

“Scared?”

Baggins nods, “Scared. Yes. He's... he's different, from when this all began? I don't know if I'm making any sense.”

Tauriel nods to signify he is: but from what she knows, Thorin Oakenshield has never, ever, _ever_ been a very stable person. Neither has anyone else in his family, for that matter. She vaguely knows about Fili and Kili (random tidbits of conversation over lunch in the office, a “see what they've done here” or a “he's dating so and so” thrown around stale sandwiches and lukewarm coffee), but nothing too substantial.

All she knows (from Thranduil, mainly, and the occasional Peredhel comment) is that they're party-going, womanizing, havoc-wreaking rich boys, and not exactly healthy. Apparently the youngest has a history of substance abuse, but she's not really sure the Daily Mail is a _reliable_ news source on such matters.

“He's... he's hurt himself over the past few days. He? I think he tried to kill himself, threw himself straight into danger- it's. It's scary. And I just don't think that... that A.R.K.E.N.S.T.O.N.E is something that someone in his. In his state should have.”

Bilbo hates the stammering- but it's always been there, whenever he got nervous, perching behind his ear, ready to slip on his tongue and make it trip on itself, a small monkey with sleek black fingers that got him teased in elementary school and ignored in high school, and now isn't any different. Tauriel, though, doesn't mind. She never seems to mind, anything at all, and that's because she knows that most times she is the one comforting, not the comforted. It is, per se, a relaxing, calming thought. If you comfort, you are perfectly under control.

She's never felt this fragile.

Sylvan stares at the USB drive and lets out the breath she is all too aware she was holding. She shakes her head.

“No, please. Miss _Tauriel_.”

“Bilbo, I'm just a police officer.”

“And I'm just a hacker. But... but you're the only person I think is safe and... _whole_ enough to handle this. Healthy. You know. _Sane_.”

She frowns.

“And maybe Thranduil can give it to someone who'll know what to do.”

_This is so much bigger than either of us_.

Sylvan sighs and stares at the small object Baggins is holding.

_God, what have you gotten yourself into, girl?_

_A mess, a mess, a mess_.

“Shit.” she barks out. “Shit, shit, _shit_.”

She opens her palm and Bilbo smiles at her (although it feels like mainly he is forcing the corners of his mouth into a smile, he's not really sure his body remembers how to smile) and hands her A.R.K.E.N.S.T.O.N.E.

“Thank you.”

She doesn't look at him.

“Don't. Just... don't, please.”

It's her turn to plead.

* * *

“Thranduil?”

Tauriel's voice is very, very low. It takes her a few tries to stir Greenleaf from the sleep he was about to dip himself in.

Thranduil blinks at her and then gingerly slips Legolas off of him and places the kid so that he's sleeping as comfortably as possible on the couch. Thranduil stands up.

“Are you all right?”

Her wide eyes are an answer, her clenching jaw is another, the USB key she's holding is the definitive resolution he needs.

“Bilbo Baggins just gave me A.R.K.E.N.S.T.O.N.E.”

She is not, in fact, all right.

* * *

Thorin stares at the computer screen in front of him and taps his conjoined index's fingertips together.

There's an empty folder in front of him and a USB key he knows he should be holding.

He bites his lip and stands up, the fancy chair creaking as it lets go of his weight. He is disturbingly, _terrifyingly_ lucid right now, the same kind of lucidity that separated the moment between him breathing normally, thinking normally, _being_ normally and the moment in which he picked up a cricket bat and beat an eighteen year old boy to a comatose pulp.

Thorin gingerly avoids the pool of Smaug's blood and opens the study door, squinting as his eyes are hit with a sledgehammer of light coming from the large windows in the living room. He blinks a few times and leaves the door open behind him, not caring about who comes and goes.

Oakenshield wonders when the police'll close in. G would be happy to let him know that they'll _never_ close in, he had time to clean this mess up too, but G isn't there right now, the _deus ex machina_ is not amongst its loyal disciples to receive prayers of thanks. G is sitting at a table, The Lady in front of him, discussing in hushed tones and large eyes what's just happened (Haldir L. O'Rien has just brought in some ice for his boss' head, which is pounding) and he has no time to concentrate properly on Thorin Oakenshield and the mess he's gotten himself into. All he can do is quickly place a few necessary calls.

Fili and Kili are two of the few who've remained. The Longbeard brothers left after assuring that the money they're owed will be deposited in their respective bank accounts, and so did Bifur and Bombur Broadbeam. Ori and Dori Rison are gone, too, back to their perfect facade of a life. He figures so is Nori and so is Bofur- he hasn't seen either of them for the past hour.

(For a month or so, Ori will have problems sleeping at night).

Thorin's nephews, who're sitting on a sofa, staring out at the gravel-covered driveway so similar to their grandfather's, greet him one with a tired smile, one with a small bitter grimace.

It will take time for Kili to start loving his uncle again, if he will ever manage to bring himself to do so.

“Bilbo!” Thorin calls, a perfect layer of cheerfulness covering the churning poisonous suspicion underneath.

_Trust no one_ his brain whispers. And he obeys.

Bilbo stops, startled, and awkwardly smiles. He knows he is a horrible, horrible liar.

His hands are digging into his pockets, burrowing as deep as they can go. Bilbo swallows and is terrified that his betrayal is seared across his face in angry red letters. He feels like a mouse caught in the act of stealing food, he's been found ratting in the cracks in the floor, he's going to be dragged out of his shit-filled, lie-filled, stinking hole.

He realizes, all of a sudden, that he feels as if he has betrayed Thorin, and wishes he could erase such a heavy burden.

_You did the right thing_ . _**You did the right thing.** _

There's a door creaking back open wide behind Baggins, Thranduil and Tauriel stepping out of the sitting room. Thranduil's child is not with his father, Thorin thinks little of it. Bilbo figures the thin, scared kid is asleep, and for a fleeting second hopes there are no nightmares.

Given the situation, it is unlikely.

Dwalin and Balin appear behind Thorin's back, but he does not notice either of them. Right now, his feverish brain is all concentrated on Bilbo, drinking in every flinch and movement, he feels so paranoid he thinks his muscles'll jump out of his skin, blood vessels clear to see, pumping and trembling and his hands, talons outstretched, ready to wring Bilbo's neck if he's done as much as _steal_ A.R.K.E.N.S.T.O.N.E from him, the only person who has any right to own it, the only one who knows its true value, the only one who _deserves it_.

Fili's good at reading people- Fili's good at reading Thorin, and he's seen traces of a brain needing its medication, of a brain whose wiring has started to fail again, of a brain ready to burst, dangerous, and he's stood up- not moved, but stood up, just in case.

Dwalin's taken a few steps forward.

Thranduil's absent-mindedly placed his good hand on the butt of his rifle.

Bibo swallows.

“Bilbo, I was just thinking. You know, I've been paying you to do a very specific thing, haven't I? To find A.R.K.E.N.S.T.O.N.E, right?”

“Y- yes.”

The stammer, the swallow, the don't-look-him-in-the-eye. Thorin bares his teeth and knows he is an inch away from losing any and all control he has left.

It is terrifying.

It is exhilarating.

Bilbo swallows, his palms are sweating.

“And did you, did you _find_ A.R.K.E.N.S.T.O.N.E?”

Bilbo realizes Thorin's forced him with his back in a corner.

Unseen, unheard, unnoticed, unaccounted for, Kili feels a small whine escape his lips. Fili doesn't hear it. Kili realizes he's starting to rip at the seams.

Baggins quickly nods. Dwalin's about to intervene.

“He doesn't have it. I do.”

“ _Tauriel_ -”

But Sylvan's already taken a step forward, and Thorin's head snaps up from staring at Bilbo. The woman's fists are clenched. She breathes.

Her eyes meet Thorin's, and Thorin's eyes are burning.

“Excuse me?”

“He doesn't. He doesn't have A.R.K.E.N.S.T.O.N.E. I do.”

She swallows and takes a deep breath.

“ _You_ have it?”

Thorin's leaving Bilbo alone, Thorin's briskly walking towards Tauriel, Thorin's teeth are bared, Thorin's ready to snap her little thieving neck, Thranduil's ready to stop him, Fili's ready to-

“She has nothing to do with this.”

Thorin stops all of a sudden and ever so slowly turns towards Bilbo.

Bilbo's never felt this scared in all his life.

“I... I gave it to her. It was my decision.”

Deep breaths, Bilbo. Deep breaths.

“ _Your decision_? A.R.K.E.N.S.T.O.N.E. isn't yours _to keep_.”

He sounds so cruel. He sounds like an old computer's glitching audio. something gritty and scary.

Bilbo opens his palms at Oakenshield. He might as well go all the way.

“I don't trust you, Thorin. You've... you seem like you've lost your mind. What you did to Bard, to his lover-”

“YOU! YOU WORTHLESS- YOU ABSOLUTE WORTHLESS SACK OF _PATHETIC SHIT-_ ”

Thorin is crashing into him, Thorin is _hurting him_ , only it isn't Thorin, it's something wearing Thorin's skin, something that's just grabbed Bilbo's neck, something that's definitely lost itself, something that's slammed Baggins against a wall, something spitting and yelling and screaming.

And Bilbo feels the pressure clench his throat and the air escape his lungs.

"You little worthless  __bastard_ _." Thorin growls and yells at the same time, an indiscernible mess of rage and desperation, “IT WAS MY FATHER'S LIFE'S WORK! MY FATHER'S-”

“THORIN NO!”

Did he say it? Did Fili say it? Did Dwalin yell it? He can't tell, all Bilbo can concentrate on are those scary, scary blue eyes and the dizziness the increased pressure the choking the-

Someone's ripping Thorin off of him, his knees are buckling, someone's screaming, “GET OFF OF ME YOU PIECE OF SHIT!” and then Dwalin is dragging Thorin into Smaug's study before anyone can react, and slamming the door behind him.

Thorin's lungs are hitting his ribs as he breathes as he _tries to breathe_ as he breaks free of Dwalin's grasp and throws himself forward to open the door again, but MacFundin shoves him back, and Thorin accidentally steps into the blood-soaked rug, and he is snarling.

But he quiets down.

For the time being, he quiets down.

Dwalin lowers his head and stares at his shoes and swallows, and then he says it, quietly, scared, empty, broken, forcing his hollow muscles and his hollow bones to make himself stare Thorin in the eye:

“ _I thought you kept your promises_.”

Thorin clenches his jaw.

“What are you-”

“The  _medication_ , Thorin! You promised you'd take it. You promised you'd _fucking_ -”

Oakenshield swallows and sternly refuses to look Dwalin in the eye. Dwalin feels like he is losing his mind.

“I'm taking it.”

“ _Liar_.”

The word is shattered by the edge of both rage and defeat biting into his voice.

“Liar, liar, _liar_.”

“Dwalin-”

“You cruel, selfish liar!”

Thorin takes a step back, startled, and his back hits the study's table, the PC on it rattles. He licks his lips and shakes his head.

“I'm perfectly in con-”

“No. No, you don't _do that_. You don't feed me that bullshit because you are _not in control_ , I know you well enough to know-”

“You know  _nothing at_ -”

“Oh,  _Thorin_. Oh, sweetheart.”

“Don't.  _Don't you call me that_!”

Thorin screams, livid.

Dwalin swallows and wishes there was some way to fix this, but the landslide's just crashed into the town, it's torn the streets to pieces, and now all he can do is search for survivors in the rubble.

This happened fourteen years before.

This ended with him slamming the door and disappearing for two years.

He shuts his eyes.

Pure venom, tentative hatred, a scared seventeen year old saying, utterly convinced of it: “ _I'm not gay_.”

The man he became is standing in front of Dwalin right now, and his hands are shaking with rage. He is sick. Thorin is very, very sick and the bags under his eyes and his pale thin skin are only further proof, so much fucking proof, _the only proof_ Dwalin's ever needed.

They stare at each other and whatever Dwalin thought was left inside of him is slowly burning to a cinder, and wishing doesn't stop the smoke from making his eyes water. Thorin doesn't dare look at him- it's too much, for the both of them.

Twenty years crashing into them and tearing their chests wide open, hearts beating savagely against thin air, MacFundin's mind is much too far from his body, and it clouds judgement, he can't _see_ with tears he can't control filling his eyes to the brim.

Which means he says it.

He stupidly, stupidly says it.

“I miss you.”

And the look on Thorin's face is exactly what he expected.

He figures it should hurt him, but it doesn't- if you don't count the dull ache that's always there growing slightly, slightly deeper.

Dwalin's too tired to hurt.

“ _It was fourteen years ago_.”

_It was twenty years of our lives sixteen to thirty-seven_ , Dwalin would like to scream back at Thorin's disarming sudden apathy.

And then the laughter comes.

Dry, sharp, blood-soaked, stiletto-thin, crashing against their ears from the banister above, the laugh of a person who's having the time of their lives, a laugh that resonates gritting and swells to a choked cough- and then Nori Rison leans over, and a smile that's more of a predator's grin is adorning his skinny addict's face.

“Oh, I'm so sorry- was I interrupting your little _domestic_?”

“Get the fuck out of here.”

“No, nope, out of the question.”

Elegant footsteps down the ladder, Rison walks without a single word of acknowledgement over Smaug's body wrapped in a sheet, and then he tuts, and cocks his head to the side. Shrill eyes never leaving Thorin's blue ones, head snapping towards Dwalin pupils moving a second out of synch, words directed at MacFundin, gaze stuck to Thorin's skin.

“You know the first time I found out it was _him_ , of all people, I was _angry_ , Dwalin. I thought, _he could do better_. Instead he fucks a rich boy and calls it a day, doesn't he now?”

Tongue darts over teeth, voice a double-edged blade, mocking, always mocking, “Was the fuck at least worth it, Dwalin, _sweetheart_?”

“Rison, I'm  _warning you_ -”

“Or what? You'll slaughter me right in front of Blue Eyes?”

Thorin flinches, Nori notices, Nori's grin widens. He is tearing Dwalin apart bit by bit, enjoying every moment of it. He's waited a long while for this, ever since Tallinn, ever since they crossed paths the first time.

“I told you I'd destroy you, didn't I, Dwalin?”

Dwalin's ready to tear him apart. One wrong step. Just one unwanted step over the red line, and he will be ready, waiting.

“I _promised_. I pinky-promised. I've been waiting for your blood on my hands for nearly twenty years. That's a long time to wait, Dwalin. A long, _long_ time.”

He turns back towards Thorin, cocks his head to the side, evaluates the prey, and wonders if he might as well just tear him down for good. Thorin without Dwalin, he knows, is an empty shell, a dead man walking. Dwalin without Thorin is a worthless ghost, ready to teeter over the edge and crash in ugly, mangled shards.

Oh, how easy it is to make angels collapse.

“So I guess we'll start with the loose ends, won't we?”

He turns back towards Dwalin and oh, those teeth look almost like fangs in the semidarkness. Maybe they are, somehow. They're certainly tearing and eating and swallowing pieces of flesh, right now, and loving every bloody second of it, the screeching grin he gives both of them and then clicks his tongue.

“ _Rison_ -”

“You know he fucked me, right?”

Blunt trauma to the head makes Thorin's eyes widen, look at Dwalin with wounds so deep where the blue should be, red and hurting and throbbing, aching, burning through a skull and brain he thought had stopped caring.

And all of a sudden Thorin's bones are so empty he knows he is ready to set them alight.

“And did everything to me he'd never done to you, all the things you never _let him do_ , Blue Eyes, all the cutting and smacking and biting and name-calling he wanted and needed to do to me, and you should _see_ the scars he left me.”

Nori laughs at the blood gushing from Thorin's heartbeat and the unintentional pain Oakenshield is showing, laughs even as Dwalin grabs him and turns him around and buries his nails in his cheeks, crescent moons of hysterical sniggering and a tongue that darts in and out like a reptile's, _you knew this was going to happen_ his eyes say, and Dwalin curses himself, because Nori is, as always, right.

“ _Bastard_.” MacFundin hisses.

“ _Liar_.” comes a shaky, shattered voice. “You cruel, selfish _liar_.”

Thorin didn't know he was even still capable of speaking.

_He never loved you_ is all he knows right now. _You were just another easy fuck_.

He thought he'd stopped caring, he thought he'd forced himself into apathy, or at least the illusion of it- but right now Thorin's reality is splitting through the middle for the millionth time. His heart has been offered up on the altar, it is still beating, it is ready for sacrifice.

Dwalin doesn't have it in himself to fight back, to even try to deny what Nori spat at them both- because it's the truth. And Thorin knows it, knew because he'd traced his thumb along the cuts and scars once he'd come back and never asked, although he feared, always kept it locked deep inside, under his tongue.

Nori grabs the front of his shirt and pulls him forward, so that his spittle-soaked lips are inches from Dwalin's ear.

“Let's  _finish this_ , MacFundin, once and for all. It's time to see this to an end.”

And Dwalin's fist collides with Nori's jaw, and Rison falls back, and Rison _crawls back_ , and stands up, and is laughing and opens the door to a now empty hallway, and whispers, voice thick with the peculiar kind of excitement only the promise of violence can give him,

“Come get me, then.”

And it's Thorin's empty sockets that propel Dwalin forwards, it's the _Liar_. whispered by a voice that's lost all light, it's the rage, the fury, the desperation.

Nori laughs as he skips backwards and then throws himself into a run he feels pump blood through his rattling traitor's veins, and he leads Dwalin up a flight of stairs, hair falling in front of his face, and he is laughing, he is laughing, he is _laughing_ and he is a puppet-master, he is running a dirty finger along a trembling spine, and he has won.

He won the moment Dwalin kissed him in that bar and Rison had tasted the alcohol and the _want_.

And this is it.

Nori decides to let Dwalin catch up with him once he's sure he's in the right room, and MacFundin slams into the leaner man's body with the force of a terrified hurricane, Nori's back connecting with a wall, Dwalin's fist slamming into his face, blood suddenly filling his nose, seeping into his mouth.

Nori does not stop laughing, and the sound is wet and seething, simmering, frothing at the mouth.

“You rotten little _psychopath_.”

“Oh, Dwalin, Dwalin, _no_. No, no. _What_ have I always told you about the ableist misuse of incorrect terminology? We're not psychopaths. They've told us we have something called _antisocial personality disorder_.”

There's footsteps behind MacFundin, and then all of a sudden the reality of what's happening hits Dwalin like a hailstorm of punches to the back, sudden, suffocating, the same way Thorin stares at his hands right then, hands he wants to break to pieces, hands he feels rotten, dripping with pus, dripping with sin, and Thorin knows there's only one way to fix this.

Thorin knows there's a text he has to answer, a white rabbit to follow, an appointment to go to. Azog is waiting.

So is he, he realizes.

In the meantime, Dwalin lets go of Nori's neck as Bofur presses the tip of his suppressor to the nape of his neck. MacFundin immediately goes for his gun, but there's a knife against his jugular the moment he hints at any kind of movement, and Nori pushes himself off the wall, grinning his ever-present, scary grin.

“Out of the question, _lover_.”

On Nori's lips, that word is a curse.

“What do you want?”

Bofur clears his throat.

“We want to know where A.R.K.E.N.S.T.O.N.E. is, Dwalin.”

Dwalin shrugs immediately.

“I don't know.”

"I thought about asking Baggins, you see, but something tells me you'd know  _better_. Besides, I still want to play with him a little bit. He's funner than I thought."

Bofur grins, terrifying. "So where's the USB key, MacFundin?" he asks again.

"I told you, I don't  _know_."

“ _Bullshit._ ”

Nori's fist against his jaw, teeth clashing into each other, warm blood where they cut his tongue, and he lurches forward, spits saliva and red. Nori's fist hits again, and again, and again.

All of a sudden, Dwalin is aware he's on his knees, he's aware Nori's boot collides with his face, he's aware that there is only pain, and nothing else, Rison's foot to his stomach, once and twice and three times, and Dwalin's vocal chords vibrate with the scream of pain he tries to choke back down his throat.

“Wrong _fucking answer_ , MacFundin-”

Nori's knees on either side of his hips, Dwalin finds himself straddled by the other, some part of his brain screaming at him for falling so head-first into such a simple trap.

Lean, strong fingers yanking his mouth open, and the shine of a knife in the half-light.

“Now, where's A.R.K.E.N.S.T.O.N.E.,  _sweetheart_?”


	31. v

_We are children_.

That is the first thing he thinks.

They were forced to grow up and they had to  _force themselves_  to grow up, too fast, crooked, frail, ill-equipped and much too fragile. They were thrust head-first into life and have been grasping for purchase on slippery walls ever since.

Fili stares at the shut door in front of him and sighs.

"Do we  _have_  to?" Kili spits out. His brother looks like a misshapen mess of bones, too tired to be holding together all of the stray pieces he's found himself responsible for. He wishes he could help. He tries to help, tries to erase the guilt of being yet another, if not the biggest, thing to keep safe, keep in place, keep together.

"You don't. I do." 

"I want to help."

Fili turns around and stares at Kili.

He smiles.

It takes all of Kili's willpower to smile back something humane looking and not just a pained grimace. 

Fili is on the brink of splitting altogether. Kili's safe place and anchor is about to implode, and he doesn't know how to react. Panic isn't enough- it doesn't cover the scope of dread he can feel himself rapidly running towards.

 _God, I need a drink_.

"There's no need for you to see him like this."

The words sound like thorns Fili is spitting out of a bleeding mouth bit by bit. His chest is constricting into something that's making it nearly impossible to breathe, a choking sensation that fills his throat with mucus and spittle. Kili doesn't budge. The only movement he allows himself is a simple shrug.

"I'm not going anywhere."

Fili stares at him, nods and then turns around, knocks on the door.

"...Thorin? Uncle Dwals?"

There's no answer.

Fili knocks again.

Quietness replies.

"Shit," he mutters under his breath. He opens the door to Smaug's study and finds the room completely empty. No Thorin.

No Dwalin.

Kili follows close behind, both of them nervously eye the puddle of blood and the abandoned body. Fili stares at the empty room for another handful of seconds and then quickly dials Thorin's cell phone number.

"Hello-"

" _Thorin_ -"

"-you have reached Thorin Oakenshield's voicemail. I am unable to take your call right now, please leave a messag-"

"Oh,  _fuck this_."

He puts down the call before the proverbial beep and furrows his brow. 

"He's not answering."

"Where's Dwalin?"

"Dwalin's not going through a mental breakdown right now, Kee. I'm pretty sure he can fend for himself."

"There's a car missing."

Kili's standing back next to the couches they were sitting on earlier, eyeing the parking lot outside. 

" _What_?"

"There's a car missing. Thorin's taken one of Smaug's cars."

"Are you sure?"

Kili nods, "There were three, now there's two. God, who the fuck even puts his sports cars out in plain sight like that? I mean,  _all three of them_?"

Fili shrugs, "A megalomaniac?"

Kili scoffs and a ghost of a genuine smile manifests itself. Fili takes a deep breath and paces back and forth for a few seconds. He thinks he hears someone yell " _What the fuck_?", but he's not entirely sure of it. And, right now, it feels like the least of his problems.

 _I promised I'd keep him safe_.

"Do you have any idea where he could've gone?"

Fili shakes his head. "No, no, of course not. All I know is that he's suicidal and. And. And completely out of it."

"Okay. We need Baggins."

Fili frowns at his brother, "... _Baggins_?"

"Yeah. Bilbo. If there's someone who can track a cellphone, it's him."

"Will he even be willing to talk to us? You know, after-"

"We have no other options, Fee."

Kili stares at his older brother and involuntarily shivers.

* * *

" _Excuse me_?"

Bilbo stares at the two with a look of utter shock, horror and bewilderment. They managed to catch him just as he was making his way out of the front gate in an uncomfortable drizzle that looks like it has every intention of becoming a full-blown storm.

Bilbo's never felt this tired.

"Please."

Fili's never sounded this scared. Kili lingers behind, equally terrified but much more quiet and reserved, even embarrassed of having to display pain so clearly and so lucidly, without the aid, cover and comfort of any substance, illegal or not.

Bilbo furrows his brow and presses a hand to his mouth, dubious.

"Let me see if I've got this straight... you want me to... look for Thorin-"

"Yes."

Fili's blond hair is starting to mat itself to his forehead.

"-who nearly murdered me."

Fili lets out a pleading sigh, "We know. We  _know_. It's why we need your help to find him as fast as possible." 

"Because he nearly murdered me?"

"Because it's not the first time he does it. And he might do it again."

Bilbo gapes at Kili, "You mean nearly kill someone?"

Kili's shoulders tighten and he clearly regrets having blurted that out. Fili quickly intervenes.

"We just don't want anyone to get hurt, okay? Him included."

Bilbo fidgets, sighs, hesitates. He frowns at the two kids in front of him. 

 _God. They're nothing but children_.

* * *

Dwalin's world is dipped in red. Pain, the physical part of it, is black splotches of static expanding like oil in water inside his brain, his clouded brain, his tired brain, the brain that is nothing but the blood dripping out of his nose, teeth rusty with it, teeth salty with it.

Nori's brought his face inches from his, and is currently running his thumb against the scar on his cheek.

"My my, what pretty work I did here."

The gesture is deliberately sexual. Bofur sits on a chair, arms crossed against the backrest, head tilted to the side. He  _tsk_ s a few times and rolls his eyes.

"Be a good boy, MacFundin. Make this less painful for everyone."

Dwalin has a clear visual of his boots before Rison forces his lower jaw even more open and the pain drags him back inside his body: for a second he fears it might snap, although a jaw snapping is the least of his problems right now.

"All right,  _lover_ , let's get this party started. And don't forget to  _scream_  this time."

Dwalin shuts his eyes, squeezes them tight. 

Nori lets go of his face. His head falls back with a thud.

" _What the fuck_?" he hears him snarl.

Dwalin opens his eyes to see Tauriel standing over Bofur, who's fallen off the chair, wielding a desk lamp, chest heaving, feet bare to not make a sound. MacFundin is still lucid enough to manage to push Nori off of him whilst he's still staring, dumbfounded, at Sylvan and, as he throws the assassin aside, he shoves his entire body weight against Bofur, who's awkwardly trying to scramble back onto his feet.

The Irishman brings a shaky hand to his bleeding forehead before a roaring Scotsman collides with his chest, and the two of them, both dizzy, hit the ground, Bofur first, Dwalin on top, fists immediately hitting Broadbeam's face as hard as they can. 

Nori, in the meantime, is circling around Tauriel, teeth bared, knives ready.

"You little bitch, you just  _don't give up_ , do you?"

"My mother taught me  _never to_."

And then she hits with all her might, harder than she hit Bofur, much harder, the lamp connecting with Nori's jaw and Nori falling backwards and this is for herself whom he never hurt but wanted to so bad, this is for the people he  _did_  hurt, for all those who died strangled by him.

Nori Rison's jaw shatters. The  _crack_  is audible throughout the room. He staggers back. He stares at Tauriel with eyes bulging, utterly aghast.

And then he collapses to the floor unconscious.

Tauriel takes a deep breath and then she's fully aware she's staggering back herself, hands letting go of the lamp. Bofur's knocked out on the floor and Dwalin's standing up- there's a sharp pain in his hip that makes him stagger and wheeze for a second, but then he's next to Sylvan, who's leaning against her knees, who's trying to breathe. Her red hair cascades in front of her face.

"What on  _earth_  were you thinking of doing?"

"Saving your life." she pants back, "which I did." and then smiles at Dwalin. 

Dwalin smiles back.

"Thank you." he says. She glances at Nori.

"He had it coming."

"Believe me, they both did."

* * *

Thorin stops the car and stares at the building in front of him.

Army Road, number five is an old apartment complex that looks virtually abandoned, but Oakenshield's senses are running at a million miles an hour, and he immediately catches a glimpse of men standing at the windows, weapons ready.

Thorin has his gun with him.

His phone rings: Fili's name pops up on the screen- he stares at it, lets the pang of guilt rush over him, and then ignores the call. He steps out of Smaug's Aston Martin. He doesn't sigh. He barely even breathes. He relishes in the feeling of cool air on his skin, faint rain, grey clouds.

He breathes in Swindon's poison, and then steps into the building.

 _Bring him to me on his knees_  had been Azog's order. 

Thorin stops after he's walked fifteen feet. Someone's stepped on the shattered glass and debris behind him, clumsily made a sound. He feels his lungs fill with oxygen and his heartbeat accelerate. His pupils dilate, his nostrils flare, his hands start sweating.

He is ready.

He isn't ready. An aluminium baseball bat straight to the back, which knocks out the air. He tries to gain a standing position again but the henchman's blow hits him square in the face, and he screams as blood starts pouring from his mouth. He grasps for purchase on the walls, skins his hands on a broken piece of wood jutting out of it, grabs onto glass and feels it cut his fingers. No matter. It's good enough of a weapon for him, and he tears it off, lashes out but misses. He sees blood in front of him, hot drops falling from his torn palms and split lip. Thorin yells to fuel his bones. But there's three other ones, now. It's four against one.

And he is alone.

And he is bleeding. 

And the baseball-wielding one hits him on the head, metal cracking against his skull, a dull whack, an even duller pain. Thorin's head swims for interminable seconds.

One big, burly one grabs him and drags him along the floor. He tries to fight back. They kick him in the stomach.

Glass buries itself in his shirt and his back, and it hurts, and his ears ring.

They reach a bigger room, he thinks, despite blood flooding his eyes: there's more light. Someone hauls him onto a chair and handcuffs his hands to it. And then there's a hand.

Tender, calloused, he can't see it but he can feel it. A hand that wipes the blood off his face.

Azog's hand.

Azog smacks him, hard. Thorin sees stars again.

"It's been a while, Thorin."

He realizes he's come here to die.

He couldn't be happier.

* * *

Fili grips the steering wheel of one of Smaug's remaining cars and eyes his little brother, who's sitting as per usual as far from him as possible, pressed against the car door. They are both quiet and nervous.

Fili sighs as they reach a red light. He stares straight ahead and activates the windshield wipers: the rain's growing heavier by the minute.

"Rebecca's pregnant."

He doesn't recognise his voice as he says it but then it's there, it's out, it's standing shivering and cold for both of them to witness, despite whatever he may think. Kili pulls himself a little closer to his brother.

"She's  _what_?"

"She's pregnant. I'm gonna be a dad."

He blurts the second phrase out so fast it sounds like a single word. But here they are. Going to hunt down their mentally ill uncle. Hoping he hasn't killed anyone. Hoping he hasn't gotten himself killed.

"You're shitting me."

"Nope."

Christ, there shouldn't be  _tears_. But there are. Despite himself, there are. Fili feels doomed for some inexplicable reason, he feels as if he's being crushed.

"Oh my God,  _congratulations_   _man_! How far is she?"

"Three... three months, yeah."

He nods at his brother and smiles.

"What're you gonna call it?"

"Kiara if it's a girl."

"And if it's a boy?"

"Frerin."

The answer covers both of them with a cold layer of surprise. Kili stares at his brother who checks the instructions written down on a piece of paper to avoid those black piercing eyes.

"... _Frerin_?"

"Yeah."

Fili squints past the rain. Kili smiles uncomfortably.

"Mum's gonna have a heart attack if it's a boy."

Fili laughs, completely joylessly. "Yeah. Yeah, I know."

"I think I might be bisexual."

There. Kili's is out in the open too. It is black, heavy, sticky. It scares him.

Fili's head turns to face his brother, eyes wide.

"You're  _what_?"

"I think I might be bi."

Fili shakes his head and blinks, "No, no no wait, wait, it's fine," as Kili sees this and burrows back into his corner.

The youngest of the two starts picking at the skin around his nails and doesn't say anything.

"Kee. I mean it. It's fine."

"You sure?"

"Yeah I'm sure, of course I'm sure. You're my brother. You're my  _brother_."

Kili stares at the raindrops chasing each other down the window.

"I thought you might hate me."

" _What_? No, no. God. Not in a million years."

Fee smiles very very small.

"So what does Alex stand for? I mean, it's clearly not Alexandra."

"Alexandre."

"Oh.  _French_."

Kili nods. For a moment they are nothing but brothers, smiling and joking and telling each other secrets. It's a moment that passes fairly quickly.

"We're here," Fili suddenly whispers, slowing the car down. Kili swallows and stares at the grey building towering over them.

"What the  _fuck_  has he gotten himself into?"

"I don't know, Kee. But I've got a bad feeling about it."

* * *

Rebecca Johnson is sitting at her kitchen counter, ignoring the greying skies that might bring forth a storm in the following days. She's nursing a mug of peppermint tea, her legs pretzeled under her body. The windows are open so she can relish in the delicate chirp of wind chimes.

Her phone rings.

It's Fili.

"Fee?" she asks.

"Hey there, Becky."

"Why didn't you tell me you were back in the-"

"Listen, I don't have much time."

" _What_?"

"Thorin's got himself. Well let's just say there's a pretty big shitstorm going on right now."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

She's set the mug down, she's tightened her lips.

"Noth- nothing. I just. I want you to know I love you."

"Fee? What's going on?"

" _Nothing_.  _Please_. I just need to fix this. I need to make things okay."

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. I'm fine. I love you, I love you,  _I love you_."

He suddenly sounds so desperate. It scares her.

"You are the best thing that's ever happened to me."

" _Fee_ -"

But he's already hung up on her.

"Jesus Christ no."

Suddenly her stomach is a bottomless pit, a black hole, an endless void, and everything is falling through it. Violently. It is unfair.

She quickly dials another number.

Fili pockets his phone and eyes Kili, who's staring at him, all child, not a speck of adulthood- growing up is so difficult when you have to do it _alone_. 

"We'll be okay, Kee." he weakly says, despite not knowing what's waiting for them inside. "We'll be perfectly fine."

It's a lie. Some part of Fili knows this, because he steps through the same door Thorin went through only twenty minutes earlier with such a heavy heart he doesn't know how he can breathe. He pulls his gun out.

"Stay behind me," he whispers to Kili as he hands him his glock's twin.

The baseball bat hits him in the face, and shatters his skull, breaks loose some of his teeth, and it  _hurts_ , it hurts so bad he can't even scream. Kili lurches forward to try and drag Fili to safety, but someone's grabbing him by the hair, and he screams as his head is torn back.

Fili yells his name but he can barely hear it. The eldest of the two manages to stand up, and he throws himself forward, trying to reach for his brother, but someone's grabbing his arm, someone's twisting it behind his back.

Fili screams and his knees buckle.

Kili kicks his attacker in the balls and crawls forward, towards the door, hauls himself up. But another thug bars his way, suddenly, appearing so suddenly as if he were made of the shadows they're trying to swim out of. Grinning like a loon, face wolfish, gold-capped teeth glinting.

"KILI!" Fili is yelling, "KILI!  _GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE! GET THE FUCK_ -"

But his last phrase ends in a horrifying scream as his arm is twisted further and the bone breaks for good and tears through the skin, tearing it, warm blood overflowing like a river much too full of sin.

Through the pain, Fili hears the sound of a gun being kicked across the floor, unmistakable auditory promise of a surrender. Fili's green eyes meet his brother's dark brown.

"I'm not leaving you."

And then someone's hitting the back of Kili's neck, and he too falls to his knees, he too spits blood.

* * *

"Dwalin?"

Rebecca's voice is, despite the phone reception not being very good, unashamedly nervous.

"Becca?" Dwalin asks, as Tauriel helps him limp down the stairs and into the room where Legolas is napping and Thranduil is watching over him. 

"Is Fili there with you?"

"N... no, why?"

"Are you sure?"

He glances around and sees the father and sleeping son and, surprisingly, his very own brother, whom seems to have made tea. It is such a normal thing to do it catches Dwalin off-guard. An unexpected knot ties itself in his throat, but he swallows it to the back of his mind.

So much has been happening.

"Yeah, I'm sure. What's going on?"

"Where are you?"

"In Swindon. Becca,  _calm down_ , what's happening?"

"I just got a call from Fili, and he sounded... he sounded suicidal."

Dwalin rubs a hand over his eyes, "Christ. Are you sure?"

"Yeah. I know what he sounds like when he's suicidal."

Bilbo comes suddenly running into the room, "Oh thank God, I've been looking for you all over the place."

He seems relieved.

"Becca, I need to go."

"Please tell me he's safe."

"I--"

"Tell me. He's. Safe."

He can't lie to her. He just can't.

"I don't know. I'm sorry."

And then he hangs up on her, feeling his stomach retch.

Bilbo's tormenting his hands, "Things have... gotten out of control."

Dwalin ignores the pain in his hip and strides towards him, "Define out of control."

"Thorin disappeared and Fili and Kili went after him, I was able to trace his phone to an address..." he stops to read off of something he's clearly written on his hand, "Army Road, number five."

"All right, so what's the problem?"

"Now, according to Google Maps it's an old abandoned apartment building, but for some reason the security cameras are still going, so I took the liberty of. Uhm. Hacking into them."

"And?"

"Azog's there. His henchmen are there. They've got Thorin. I didn't check, but I'm pretty sure that by now they have Fili and Kili too."

Dwalin's just gone as white as a sheet. Balin's suddenly stood up, discarded all crockery and tea, and rested a reassuring, worthless hand on his brother's shoulder.

"Azog'll tear them apart."

"Yes. Yes he will."

Thranduil's voice is calm and nervous at the same time. He's stood up, hand still holding his kid's, eyes searching for Tauriel's comfort. But they're alone, all of them. Right now, they are completely alone.

Dwalin's already taken up arms, and he's rushed out. Bilbo's followed, so has Balin, obviously.

Thranduil grabs Tauriel's arm and stops her before she can go.

"No."

She tears herself out of his grasp.

"If you  _think_ -"

"I need you to keep Legolas safe."

She swallows and glances over at the sleeping boy. He whimpers in his sleep, her heart convulses. She takes a deep breath and then points a finger at Thranduil's chest. Thranduil, who's freeing his arm of an uncomfortable sling and placing it on the first nearby surface: a coffee table.

She watches him do this and then snarls,

"Don't you  _dare_  get yourself killed. Don't you  _dare_."

He stares at her blankly.

"Legs needs you. I- I need you. We both need you. So don't you  _dare_  get killed."

Her eyes are a deep, deep, watery green. They look like moss, or swirling depths, sea goddesses ready to release their wrath upon reckless men.

He goes over and places a kiss on Legolas' forehead. The boy stirs but luckily doesn't wake.

"Are you okay?" Thranduil asks, maybe a little stupidly.

Tauriel finds the courage to shake her head.

"I was nearly killed yesterday and so many people are dying around me and I want to get out of this house, and fast, and I feel weak and broken and worthless, and no, I'm not okay, and I don't know how to fix things, and I  _don't want you to die_."

The second kiss he gives is chaste, quick, delicate and to her lips. She sighs, little, she shuts her eyes.

"I won't, don't worry."

Tauriel kisses his cheek, lets her lips linger a second against the stubble and against the scar tissue that's been there for so long many times people forget Thranduil's face is burned and ruined.

" _Come back_ ," is all she can bring herself to whisper. She knows love won't save them, they are not a manic pixie dream.

But it might help.

God, she feels so tired.

* * *

 

Azog lands yet another smack to Thorin's face, and Oakenshield spits yet some more blood, stares at the wall, forces his head to turn.

Spits in Azog's face.

"Traitor," he hisses, but all Azog does is laugh. His blow lands again.

Thorin is powerless, he wonders why he hasn't put a bullet through his brain yet.

" _Traitor_ , Thorin? Quite hypocritical, coming from you of all people."

"Traitor." Thorin snarls again. Azog's hand runs once again along his cheek.

"Oh, you insolent  _baby_ , you insolent- oh my. Oh,  _my_ , look at what the cat dragged in."

Azog looks up, past Thorin, to the door behind him and smiles in absolute  _glee_.

"Bring them here, boys, the both of them, I want him to see."

Kili and Fili are dragged up in front of Thorin, standing, heads bowed. Kili is trembling. Fili's staring straight ahead.

Thorin spots something tearing through the sleeve of his shirt, bloodied and torn, and hopes it isn't a broken bone.

"No. No, they have nothing to do with this. Let them go."

Azog laughs.

" _Thorin_. You dragged them into this."

"Let them GO."

"No."

"This is between you and me."

"I want them on their knees,  _now_."

The henchmen drag the two brothers closer to their uncle and then they force them onto their knees. Fili yelps as pressure is applied to his arm. 

Behind him, Kili hears the growl of three sisters and feels the panic inside his chest swell.

"How  _lucky_  of us to have such esteemed guests today! Not one Oakenshield, not  _two_  Oakenshields, but  _three_  Oakenshields, all gift wrapped in their own pitiful stupidity and pride."

Azog slams his hand against Fili's wounded shoulder, and Fili screams.

" _AZOG_ , PLEASE!"

"Oh, how I've waited to hear you scream and beg like this, Thorin. How. How. How."

"They have nothing to do with this. Set them free.  _Set them free_."

"No, Thorin. You did this to them.  _You_  led them here. I want them to look at you. I want you to look at them.  _Look_."

Azog quickly moves over to one of his men and grabs his gun out of his holster.

"I want you to look at them and know  _you did this to them_."

He loads the gun and Fili suddenly shuts his eyes, his breathing a confused mess, tears streaming freely now, mixing with the spittle, with the blood, and then the gun rests against his temple.

"Oh God," he manages to rip out of his throat.

And then Azog pulls the trigger.

Kili screams, the scream becomes sharp, acute breaths, he is shaking as his brother's body slumps forward, and Thorin is yelling: "Kili! Kili, keep your eyes fixed on me. Look at me, Kili, Puppy,  _please_ , KILI!"

The youngest of the two tears his crying eyes away, snot dripping, face covered in blood, he is dreadful, he is lost. All die sobbing, begging for another moment.

"Look at me. Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, please."

Blue meets black.

"I'm  _sorry_ ," Thorin yells, aware that he's crying too, aware that his throat feels as if it's being torn out, aware that right now  _sorry_  means nothing at all. 

And then Azog pulls the trigger a second time.

And Thorin starts howling. No words.

Just pain.

Incomprehensible, immense, devastating.

Thorin howls, and knows that he is no longer human.


	32. vi


      **DECEMBER**  
    
    **2001**
    

The coffee warms his fingers, fends off the chill of the snow falling outside. Thorin stares at the milk as it gets poured into the blackish-brown drink, curls of white reaching across and into and blossoming, turning darkness into penumbra. 

A little milk, no sugar.

"Cheers."

He lets the taste sit in his mouth: it's good coffee, rich, burnt but not much, feeling of home and sunny mornings in all the right shades. He swallows it, sets the mug down and smiles. 

Frerin is leaning against the counter, arms crossed. His head is slightly tilted to the side, glasses balancing on the tip of his nose, he blinks and doesn't really smile back. The silence is heavier with added snow, muffling every chilly breath, child's laugh, quick, irritated umbrella-less step. Even inside, safe within warmth and coffee, thoughts and sounds are tuned down to an uncomfortable drone that weighs with a number of things that will never be fixed, but you can always pretend for an hour or so.

"I suppose you're not here just to check on me."

Frerin speaks without looking his brother in the eye: a thing Thorin's always found frustrating but, unlike others, he's learned to accept.

"That wouldn't be...  _like you_."

" _Frerin_."

Frerin's head snaps up and Thorin feels his throat tighten, confronted despite his will with Frerin's burning, old eyes. They always catch him off guard, relentless as they are. They're fighter's eyes. His younger brother cracks his knuckles and down goes his gaze again: despite it all, Thorin isn't really worth the effort.

"I'm getting sent off next week."

Frerin grimaces, stares at the tip of his shoe where it meets the spot where a black kitchen floor tile meets a white one and moves so that his foot is resting right under, barely touching, the white tile's lower right corner and the black tile's lower left, carefully placing himself so that the line between the two tiles under the ones he's staring at divides his shoe in two symmetrical halves- or, as symmetrical as something as imperfect as a shoe and a human foot can be.

"Afghanistan?" he asks once he finishes counting the tiles between his foot and the coffee table Thorin's mug is resting on.

"Yeah."

Frerin licks his lips and the grimace tugs the corners of his mouth into something that looks very much like a scared smile, he shakes his head and twists his neck and then looks at the wall for a split second, at Thorin's eyes so much like his own but  _weaker_ , and then he says, " _Good luck_."

Thorin sets down the mug and it clunks against the table's wood. He stares at his little brother because all words lacked bitterness, that phrase was purely _concerned_ , it sounded of nothing but a little boy scared of losing his big brother, and it is so unnatural coming from Frerin. Uusally, when talking to Thorin, Frerin is a wounded animal trapped in a corner- after all, he hasn't been exactly fair towards his little brother. 

"Thank you."

Frerin smiles (not  __at_   _him, but at him nonetheless) and licks his lips, crow's feet around his eyes enriching their colour with Frer's peculiar shade of joy- joy very rarely seen: when laughing with Dis, when burying his face in a horse's mane, when riding or rather walking a step closer to the sky. Frerin's throat constricts as he watches his older brother shift in his seat, the sofa creaking as he does so, uncomfortable.

"Could you- could you do me a favour, while I'm away?"

Frerin's throat goes dry and he swallows, harsh needles clawing their way down his oesophagus. 

" _What_?"

"You know what happened with... with Rob, right?"

The bitterness fills his mouth like uncomfortable, reeking aftertaste and he can't stop it- he doesn't even want to stop it.

"He died, I know. Not talking to you doesn't mean I don't talk to Dee."

 _He died_ , like a hollow clunk in the middle of the room, a black cancerous mass neither of the brothers feel comfortable moving now that it's in their line of vision.

Thorin shrugs, "You were in rehab."

The shrug makes Frerin's vocal chords want to kick Thorin out of the house with a cacophony of enraged screams. He just breathes through his nose, deep, and reminds himself that humming in public is  _impolite and that if he uses it as a coping strategy Thorin will have something to say about it, and it probably won't be too nice_.

"You make that sound like it's a  _fault_."

Thorin swallows and pulls back from leaning his arms against his knees, he tries to hide as far as leaning against the couch's back will allow him, which obviously isn't that much. All of this is obviously done subconsciously. Consciously, he'd never admit being wrong. It's not _like him_.

"Anyway-" Frerin whips his head to the side, away from Thorin and his guilt-tripping, "What do you want?"

"I want you to take care of Dis while I'm away. Her and the kids."

Frerin scoffs, baffled. 

"Do you- do you think I  _won't_?"

Frerin bristles very small, very imperceptibly, showing as little as he can, sarcasm and an exasperated tone doing most of the work. 

"She's our  _sister_. They're our  _nephews_. I mean-"

"Well, it's not like you've ever really been there for them."

Thorin answers accordingly, ignoring the fact that he's the one who started it.

"Oh my God. Oh my God, you're really. You're really picking a fight, aren't you?  _I was an _addict_ _ ," Frerin snarls and they make eye contact, prolonged, harsh and painful, "I was an  _addict_ and I _got _better_ _ , and you're treating me as if I'm some kind heartless bastard."

"I didn't say that."

" _It's not like you've ever really been there for them_. Did I miss anything?"

" _Frerin_."

"Don't use that  _tone_. Don't treat me like a  _child_. I was sick, I was _really_ , _bloody_  sick and either way I've been there for her more than you ever were. For either of us."

He swallows, blinking frantically, tiles disappearing and reappearing and slipping out of view only to explode within his brain once more.

"Stop acting so high and fucking mighty,  _Christ_ , especially when you abandoned us just so you could run off and fuck Dwalin any chance you had." 

Frerin raises his voice but doesn't scream. Frerin glares at Thorin and clenches his jaw. Frerin knows that Thorin is fully aware of how unfair he's being to his younger brother, that he came here to pick a fight, to relieve the guilt of leaving Dis on her own to deal with all of this, but _duty is duty_ ,  _cry God for Harry, England and Saint George_. 

Thorin came here to place the blame of neglect on him, but, if necessary, he is ready to bite back.

His older brother doesn't allow him the chance to do so- he blankly stares at Frerin, then stands up, grabs his coat, his gloves, his scarf, wraps himself up tight against the snow.

" _Right_. I know when I'm not wanted."

Frerin lets the sigh rattle his chest and throat, as Thorin's tone is shards of sarcasm thrust full force through his already fragile chest.

God, how Frerin wishes things were  _different_. 

"Thorin." he calls after his older brother, not entirely convinced. " _Thorin_."

But Thorin doesn't listen, sees himself to the door, stomps out into the December chill. He buries his hands in his pockets and tries not to feel as much rage (which is actually guilt stinging the back of his eyes, guilt feebly translated into feeble fury) as he's feeling right now, bitter, heavy, scorching.

It doesn't occur to him that this is the last time he'll ever see his brother alive.

It occurs to him later, when he comes back, when he's four months and four thousand years older, when he's lying on the couch staring at the ceiling.

That is when it occurs to him.

But before that not once, not now, not ever.

* * *
    
    
      **PRESENT DAY**
    

He stares at the floor in front of him, blood-soaked, brain-stained, dark and red and merciless.

He stares at the floor in front of him. He doesn't look up.

They're there, left slumped in the spot where they were killed, dead lambs, children he himself led to slaughter.

They pushed him onto his knees, he knows his jeans are stained with the blood that was shed.

He stares at the floor in front of him, head empty, chest empty, bones empty. It's quiet, the only sound rain dripping through holes somewhere in the ceiling.

They kept the dogs away from them, at least. He can hear the three bitches snarl, somewhere in the same room he's in, but space and time are becoming distant, fuzzy, incomprehensible.

"Kill me." he mutters.

Azog laughs in reply.

" _Kill me_."

He does not recognise his voice as anything remotely human. He is a beast, begging for mercy. That is all. He is a beast, he is a beast, he deserves to be dead, now more than ever, he is an animal that has been dragged in its own shit for far too long now. 

They're all dead because of him.

Footsteps, Gundabad's boots coming into view, crouching down, grabbing Thorin by the nape of his neck, fingers knotting with sweaty hair.

"Is the guilt too much to bear?" he asks, sickly sweet.

"Kill. Me." is all Thorin croaks back.

Azog grabs him tighter, hauls him forward, forces his face millimetres away from what remains of Fili's skull, a mangled mess of blond hair and bone fragments and brain matter. Thorin squeezes his eyes shut but a blade quickly slices the skin of his cheek open, and the pain sends sparks flying in his head, he yelps, he opens his eyes, he sees what's left of his nephew. He tries to fight back, to force Azog's hand off of him but Azog grabs him by the hair and drags him back, up from the crouch he was forced in, he's on his knees but his torso's fully erect.

The cold of a knife against his throat, ready to slash open.

"Do it," Thorin begs.

"You'd like me to do it, wouldn't you, you  _coward_?"

"DO IT!" Thorin yells, _free me do this please_ . " _DO IT_!"

A knife pressing harder against his neck, close to the pulse, a breath, take it in, take it out, Thorin sees neon lights and little else, he blinks and he sees Fili's body Kili screaming Kili dying, over and over and over again, an endless cacophony- and yet it's only been fifteen minutes.

It's actually been forty-five, but Thorin's brain has gone over the threshold, it's knee-deep in white, swirling poison, acid corroding him at every step. Chunks of flesh that is actually time are falling apart, floating behind him and away from him in the mud and the swamp water. 

"Don't worry. It won't be quick." Azog mutters, and Thorin's heartbeat coils and tightens and then explodes, screaming, in his ear for a split second, because then there's needle thin, overwhelming, skin-splitting pain, as the knife slices Thorin's throat open. And suddenly he is being let go of, suddenly he is floating, suddenly he is flying, swimming screeching feeling fucking, his brain full of blues and whites, full of memories and laughter and  _Dwalin_ , suddenly, burning, devastating, a second in which his entire body screams in desperate need,  _I miss you_ ,  _come back to me_ ,  ** _let me go_**.

And then his back hits the floor and the pain hits his lungs. The blood starts gushing, Thorin's head falls to the side, he feels his throat constrict and his chest become tight,  _tight_ , as he tries to breathe but all he tastes is blood. He convulses.

Thorin doesn't hear the sound he makes, the whine, the wet rasp that vomits itself out of his mouth that's filling with death. He stares without seeing at the door they came through, crooked from where he's lying, double doors seemingly falling off their hinges, floating, he's  _floating_ , he forgot how sweet blood loss was, how warm, despite the pain, despite his lungs spasming.

He sees feet, all of a sudden, hears voices screaming, a megaphone outside, words jangled in his shining brain, like "police" and "surrounded" and "out", "hands up". Footsteps cracking his skull as Azog thunders past him, and three of the five pairs of shoes in front (or is it behind inside underneath? within?) of him sprint off after him.

The sound of bullets, the sound of three dogs dying, the sound of his heartbeat tasting like sugar, rust and salt and flesh, the sound of it growing louder, someone (Peredhel? Is it Elrond Peredhel?) grabbing his neck and trying to stop the blood. Someone standing close to Elrond, looking worried, but he can't tell.

Bilbo?

Bilbo Baggins?

Thorin can no longer see well, but nonetheless he grabs Bilbo's hand (because it is Bilbo, after all, pale, sick to his stomach, shaking) and squeezes it, it hurts, his grip is a shaking mess, for a second he holds it, grabs onto Baggins with nothing but desperation propelling him forward, dragging him almost to his knees, but Bilbo's staring at the two bodies next to Thorin's, Thorin doesn't notice.

He hopes that a hand feverishly clutched is enough of an apology. Bilbo delicately squeezes Thorin's hand out of impulse more than anything.

Fili and Kili are dead.

Elrond curses quietly under his breath and turns towards Baggins, " _Call an ambulance_." he hisses. Bilbo is more than happy to let go of Thorin's sweaty, helpless hand, which falls to the floor with a soft thump and twists into a fist that is also fingers clawing into the floor for a loving touch that will never come, desperate. 

"Come on, Oakenshield," Elrond mutters, keeping eye contact with the bleeding man, "Let's stick around a little longer, all right?"

Dwalin looked, and looking once was enough.

He looked, and saw two children and their uncle lying in a pool of their own blood. He looked, and saw the kids he raised and the man he loved curled up on the floor, their blood dripping into the floorboards.

And he saw the man who  _did this to them_  run past him, knocking air out of his lungs as he shoved him aside, and Dwalin felt something take hold of him, something ferocious, feral, ancestral, the rage of a man whose soul has just been torn out but he is still too stunted to notice, and so he just keeps on fighting, and fighting, and fighting.

Right now, despite the pain in his hip, he's slamming a door shut behind him, he's cornering Azog, he's landing the first blow to his face. And he screams.

It does not make the pain any easier to bear, but it makes him terrifying.

Thranduil jogs down another hallway opposite the one they came in through, past old apartment buildings inhabited by nothing but rats now, skits to a halt in front of a shut door, Dwalin's brother close behind him. The old man's eyes are dull, welling with tears, and Thranduil feels pity wash over him like bleach.

"MacFundin!" he yells, but the only sound he hears coming from the other side of the door is the sound of a struggle.

"MacFundin!" he yells again, louder.

"Shit."

For a second, Greenleaf thinks about the sutures in his arm, and then disregards them and slams his shoulder against the door once, twice, three times, until it cracks free of its hinges and falls and he nearly falls too, dragged down by his own momentum. No suture breaks, luckily.

Azog is cornered, wailing like a wounded dog, blood pooling into his eyes, Dwalin straddling him, his fists adorned with knuckledusters hitting over and over and over.

"MacFundin!" Thranduil bellows, "DWALIN!  _Let him go_."

"He killed them!"

Thranduil clenches his fists,  _this is Tauriel's job, not mine_ , "I know.  _I know_. But so many people have already died today so  _please_.  _Please_. Don't kill him too."

 _Why is he saying this?_ For Chrissake, Gundabad is the literal _scum of the earth_  and here he is trying to reason with a man hell-bent on eradicating him from life and any future death he might bring.  _More_  death than he already has.

" _HE KILLED THEM_!" Dwalin yells again as Balin springs into action and drags him back, off of Azog, whimpering Azog, begging-for-mercy Azog. And Dwalin is a mess of snot and tears and someone else's blood covering his face, he screams, loud, wordless, a single cry of anguish. Before all of a sudden, quick as he is, he's dropped the knuckledusters and grabbed his brother's gun.

He unloads an entire round into Azog's body, howling as he does so.

"HOLY SHIT!" Thranduil screams when this happens, " _SHIT, FUCK, SHIT_!"

When Azog's body slumps backwards, immobile, eyes staring at the ceiling without seeing it at all, Greenleaf presses a hand to his mouth and squeezes his eyes shut for a second. He swallows.

"Okay. Okay, it was self defence."

"What?" Balin asks, as his arms circle around his sobbing brother.

"It was self defence." Thranduil sternly replies, stepping out of the room without saying another word.

When Dwalin walks back to where they found Thorin and Fili and Kili, he arrives just in time to see the paramedics load Thorin (pale, eyes rolling back and forth behind semi-shut eyelids, mouth gaping, hands limp) onto a gurney. He stares as they roll by, looks at Oakenshield but sees nothing but a mask. 

He tires to tell himself not to look. He tries to tell himself to spare his tired brain at least this horror.

He cannot.

Dwalin looks at Fili and Kili and feels his knees give out although they are not his knees, this is not his body, and someone's grabbing him before he hurts himself too bad by falling, someone's clasping tight the back of his head, cradling him.

Dwalin feels his neck twist and his eyes search for the slaughter that he will dream about for months to come, but Balin delicately grabs his cheek and pulls his gaze away from shattered skulls and too much blood and a dead twenty-four year old and twenty year old.

"No." Balin whispers, as he presses his forehead against his little brother's. "No."

Bilbo drags his carcass outside and surprises himself heaving, dry, leaning against the wall opposite, feeling his hands shake, his head spinning.

"Are you all right?" Peredhel asks, his hands dirty with blood. Bilbo stares at them and Elrond does nothing to hide them. There's police agents swarming around them, arresting those amongst Azog's henchmen who haven't run away yet (and those who have will be easily found).

Bilbo shakes his head, leans over, and vomits.

* * *

The hospital is unnaturally quiet. There's a ghost in the bed, a crisscross of tubes feeding in and out of him, a machine breathing for him, fluids pumping in and out.

He is empty, too small it seems for the sheets he is lying in. Bilbo's hugging himself, hidden in the corner as far as he can from the bed. Balin is standing close to him, back to the shut door.

Dwalin is sitting next to the bed, and his forehead is pressed to the mattress, one hand is clutching Thorin's.

The monitor bleeps, the ventilator sighs. Nobody moves.

There's footsteps, brisk, sudden, high heels clacking against the floors and echoing into the hallway's emptiness, filling it with their sound. They stop in front of the door and Balin wordlessly opens it.

Dis Oakenshield is standing, head high, fists clenched, nails digging into her palms. She swallows down the tears and steps into her brother's hospital room, walks over to Dwalin and, not before hesitating, not before fidgeting, places a hand between his shoulder blades.

He doesn't even acknowledge her presence, just imperceptibly squeezes Thorin's hand tighter. Dis runs her fingers through her brother's matted, sweaty hair, trails her thumb along his cheekbone. She cups his face in her shaking hand, lets it go, clenches her fists again.

All of this is done in perfect silence. 

It takes her a century to breathe, to let out a small, small sigh and then to mutter:

"I'd like to see.  _Them_. I'd like to say goodbye."

Her voice starts breaking halfway through the first sentence.

Bilbo takes this as his cue to leave (he shouldn't have been there in the first place), and he quickly walks out of the room, unnoticed and unseen, down the hallway, towards the elevators. The doors ding open and he nearly runs into a girl with bright turquoise hair and what very much looks like a baby bump. She stops in her tracks, Bilbo scoots to the left as she does the same, and then she quickly moves to the right. They apologise to each other, she swallows much too hard for someone who isn't trying not to break down in public, and then she walks past him, goes towards the direction he came from.

Bilbo stares at her for a few seconds, and then remembers there's an elevator he needs to get into, but the doors are already closing, and he stares at them for a few seconds, glistening, squeaking shut. His shoulders slump. The numbness that is overtaking his brain is a sensation he is suddenly growing accustomed to. He waits for the elevator to reach his floor again, and as he steps inside of it he realises Thorin is never going to wake up.

It stings his throat. Swallowing is, for yet another person, suddenly slightly too difficult. The backs of his eyes burn.

* * *

Elrond pulls up into Tauriel's driveway and sees a Lamborghini parked in front of the house.

He blinks at it then turns towards Thranduil.

"It's one of Smaug's," Thranduil mutters, not looking at Elrond. He stares straight ahead and then opens the car door. He somewhat slithers out of the car.

"Thrands-" Elrond says, lowering his car window, "... _Greenleaf_."

Thranduil stops in his tracks and turns around very, very slowly.

"I'm happy Legolas is back."

Thranduil smiles. He is, too. There's no need to say it. As big as Dis Oakenshield's despair is at the loss of her only children, his happiness brings balance to it, calms it, makes its scorch less devastating in the delicate fabric of history unfolding between, beneath, along with them. Of course, the fire will still burn through her, through Dwalin, through Balin.

But Legolas is alive. There is still some good. It is small, scared, and needs to be protected- but there is  _good_.

"And... and take a week off, will ya? More, if you need it. Spend time with your kid. Take care of him. Of yourself."

Thranduil nods and the smile's corners falter. It is imaginable.

"I will." he mutters.

Tauriel greets him by curling up against him, wrapping her arms around his hips as he cradles Legolas and she presses her forehead to the nape of his neck. He leans back against her, runs a hand through his kid's blond hair.

"Has he woken?"

"He asked for you while dreaming and then woke up thirsty. He's been out solid for the last half hour or so, though."

Greenleaf grabs her hand and she squeezes it back.

"Oakenshield and his nephews are dead," he mutters, staring into space in front of him.

Tauriel sighs, "Oh.  _God_."

He presses his back as close to her chest as he can, she squeezes as tight as she can, buries her face against his neck. She cradles him, he cradles his son.

"It's okay," she whispers, rubbing his arms as if to keep him warm, "It isn't your fault."

* * *

"He led my boys to slaughter," Dis mutters, her back against the morgue's wall, curled up on the floor, her sons' bodies in front of her.

Rebecca leans her head against her shoulder. They're holding hands. She shuts her eyes and involuntarily shivers at how  _empty_  Dis' voice sounds, how cold it makes her feel.

But no matter how much frost is poured in, the empty in her chest - in both their chests - will never be so easily filled.

* * *

And when the bleeping of Thorin's heart rate suddenly slows, Dwalin (who's alone now, private in his own little inferno) grasps his hand tighter, presses his forehead to Thorin's chest, his own having been torn open and bleeding for the past two hours or so, and he tries to breathe, he shudders, "Don't  _go_ ," he finds himself whispering.

"Don't  _go_."

And he is eighteen again and Thorin is smiling that wonderful, devastating smile of his and Christ, God Almighty  _they weren't supposed to fall in love_ , he was the wrong person at the right time who was also the right person at the wrong time and achingly, horribly, terribly so and now Thorin is dying and despite all the suicide attempts, all the times Dwalin spent bracing himself for the moment he knew was bound to come, nothing, nothing, nothing at all ever even prepared him for  _this_.

This is the end of the world. This is the ECG's beeping turning into a single soulless scream that fills Dwalin's ears and he tries to breathe through the tears.

But nothing would've ever gotten him prepared for all of the air being sucked out of his lungs, so sudden.

He grabs Thorin's hand, pale and limp and dying, dying,  _dead_  and kisses the palm, the wrist, the back of it, he kisses every finger and then he kisses Thorin's forehead (not the lips, no, not the lips, kissing the lips feels like breaking a promise, although he has no idea what that promise might be) and lets his lips linger there, quietly.

He does not move.

He does not move for a very, very long while.


	33. epilogue

It doesn't rain. 

Sun cruelly shines down on them, burns through their clothes and their skin until it reaches their bones and stars gnawing at the marrow.

It doesn't rain. It feels like it should. _It always rains at funerals_ , Bilbo thinks.

But it doesn't.

The empty in Dwalin's chest feels so deep it is making him drown, and in fact he is drowning: in the light, in the smell of freshly-dug dirt, of wood, of rock and stone and skies and green, summer screaming its full, burning, excruciating passion. He is drowning in the not really real not really _here_ yet notion that they're  _dead_.

Fili and Kili and Thorin.

All dead.

He stares as the coffin gets lowered. He stares and swallows past the lump in his throat, and Dis clutches his hand, and all of a sudden his vision is blurring.

* * *

He buries his face in his hands and then he leans against the steering wheel. He tries to control his breathing.

Dwalin MacFundin's chest heaves with the sobs he hid in his car to cry, and he tells himself that this is better, easier, less complicated than staring at walls and wondering  _why_?

Why  _him_ why  _them_ why  _everything_?

He pulls his head up and the breath he takes is the most pathetic wail, as he swallows down the tears and knows his eyes are red, and Dwalin curses, and he presses a hand over his mouth, and it does nothing.

There's a small rap on the passenger side's window. Dwalin wills his head to turn.

Thranduil is peering into his car. He sighs and patiently waits for MacFundin to take deep gulping breaths to calm himself enough to lower the window.

Greenleaf clears his throat.

"I uh. I wanted to give you these."

He shows Dwalin a chain. Dwalin stares at it. Thranduil seems extremely uncomfortable, and for a split second fears Dwalin will say nothing and just drive away.

MacFundin outstretches his hand. 

Thranduil is more than happy to hand over what he's holding. Dwalin runs a thumb over the dog tags, over Thorin's name ( _Thorin Charles Oakenshield_ ). He sniffles. It is a childish sound, like an eight year old boy who's just had a temper tantrum.

"Thank you," he croaks.

"There's. There's really no need. I thought about giving them to his sister but a friend of yours told me you'd... you'd need them."

Dwalin looks up from the tags and meets Rebecca's gaze, who's standing a few feet away from the car. She smiles at him, and her quivering lips betray everything there is to show. Luckily, she's too far for Dwalin to really see her. But she knows he knows she spoke to Thranduil: and that's all that matters.

_I am trying to forgive him for dragging Fili down with him with all my might. This is proof._

Thranduil buries his hands in his pockets.

"I'm sorry about what happened," he says, uncomfortable but honest. "No one deserves to die that way."

Dwalin slips the dog tags on around his neck, under his shirt: the metal is cool against his chest and for a second his heart constricts so tight he is perfectly, perfectly sure it will stop beating. It doesn't, of course, because life is unfair.

"Thank you," he says again.

All Thranduil does is nod, and then he pulls back as Dwalin rolls the window back up. Greenleaf stares at MacFundin for a few seconds and then slips his sunglasses on. He walks and then takes the bus home.

It doesn't rain. 

He thinks it should.

* * *
    
    
      **TEN MONTHS LATER**
    

Bilbo sighs. He stares at his reflection in the entryway mirror and then just shrugs, takes his jacket off and hangs it up on the back of a chair.

He quietly tiptoes across the living room and peers into his guest room now permanent second bedroom, careful not to make too much noise.

A small boy with jet-black hair is sleeping, curled up under a cover, clutching a teddy bear. He wrinkles his nose in his dreaming and then shifts to the side, kicking the cover off his legs. Bilbo smiles, fixes it again, and then quietly shuts the door again.

He opens the kitchen window and lights himself a cigarette, leaning out so the smoke doesn't get in the house. The evening smells of the beginning of summer.

It's almost been a year.

"Uncle Bilbo?" a tiny voice calls out from the room.

"I'll be right there Frodo, darling." Bilbo calls back. He stubs out the cigarette, readies a preemptive anti-nightmare glass of water, and suddenly realises that for the past three months he hasn't had any nightmares, he hasn't woken up shaking, he hasn't dreamt of Kili's splattered brains and Fili's abused skull, he hasn't heard the wet, desperate sound Thorin made as blood flooded out of his body.

He hasn't felt a gun pressed to his temple.

And so he smiles, and the smile fills his chest with birdsong, so unusual, and joy, golden coated and golden shining. He shuts the window and readies his best soothing fairytale-teller voice.

Outside, it starts to rain.

**the end**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to thank you all, every single one of you, if you've made it up to here: thank you for reading, thank you for sticking through thick and thin with me and the characters, thank you for waiting patiently when chapters took forever to write, thank you for commenting and always showing support.  
> What started as a fun little experiment has evolved into something much, much bigger, something that I did not expect but am now extremely grateful exists.  
> Collateral Damage is just the first fic of many- and I hope you'll stick around. The ride's just barely begun.  
> Much love,  
> Matty

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Tears and Seams All Turn To One](https://archiveofourown.org/works/924977) by [bowyer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bowyer/pseuds/bowyer)




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